


Fables of the Reconstruction

by Mugatu



Series: Fables of the Reconstruction [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abe gets the bat, Future Fic, Glenn lives AU, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Post All Out War, References to Past Child Abuse, Set in a magical happy world where nothing major happens after the Saviors, Slow Burn, Very AU as of Season 7, internalized ableism, non-graphic mentions of a miscarriage, non-graphic references to corrective rape, spoilers for the comics kinda since I shamelessly stole plot points, trigger warning: Negan, trigger warning: the Saviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 91,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s more than two years after the end of the world and six months after the war with the Saviors when Daryl Dixon returns to Alexandria.</p><p>Now with actual proofreading thanks to the awesome Luincalen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

It’s more than two years after the end of the world and six months after the war with the Saviors when Daryl Dixon returns to Alexandria.

“I thought you weren’t coming on this run,” Tara says when she spots Daryl trotting through the gates of the Hilltop.  He's carrying his crossbow and a backpack containing his few worldly possessions.

“Changed my mind,” he says, walking past her to the driver’s side door.

“Okay,” Tara answers, a line forming between her brows. She looks like she’s going to say something else; ask questions that Daryl has no interest in answering. Instead she says, “I’m driving.”

“Nah, I’ll do it. Give me the keys.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she says without malice. “If you’re coming last minute then you’re road dog this trip. Other side.” He doesn’t want to take the time to argue, so he grumbles only a little before doing as she says.

It’s a perfect day for travel, mid-March and the past few days have been warm and fine. The torrential rains of the past month have cleared, and the road to Alexandria is open. Thanks to a lot of hard work, the Hilltop now has a small fleet of reliable working cars and a stockpile of fuel to run them. One of them is the monster of a Land Rover they’re using today to deliver supplies to Alexandria.

They set out from Hilltop early in the morning along with three men who Daryl doesn’t know. He’s seen them around, of course; Hilltop is only so big. They’re closer to boys than men and regard him with a kind of wary awe that he hasn’t seen since the prison. They call him “Mr Dixon” and try to tell him how much they appreciate what he did for them during the war. He does not like them, and deliberately forgets their names as soon as they tell him.

The Rover seats seven but the boys are crammed together in the first row, the back seat bench has been taken out. It’s a large haul they’re bringing - everything from food (winter crops of cabbage and turnips), medicine (Doc Carson has been playing around with bread mold and has created a penicillin concoction he’s confident won’t kill anybody), and tools the blacksmith has created (shovels, spades, and plow blades now instead of spearheads).

The boys chat among themselves. They try to draw Daryl into their conversation without success. They have better luck with Tara even though like Daryl she hasn’t been to Alexandria since the war ended - by choice rather than circumstance in her case. She indulges them in their questions about the safe zone and Rick Grimes as they drive.

Tara goes at a steady, easy pace, eyes on the road. Cracks and potholes still mar their way. The fighting had torn the shit out of the roads, and the communities could only repair them so much. Case in point: a third of the way to Alexandria a chunk of the road is buried in a mudslide. The Rover is too overloaded and weighed down to plow through, so they are forced to dig themselves out of the mud. The boys prove to be actually useful, doing most of the digging. Daryl leaves them to it and takes out any walkers drawn in by the noise. A few hours later they are on their way.

“Might have to take a different route on the way back,” Tara says, frowning, “that was a hell of a mess back there.”

Daryl just grumbles and ignores her concerned glance.

They reach Alexandria by mid-afternoon. Tara stops when they reach the gates, leans out of the window, and waves up at the lookout. The lookout shouts something Daryl can’t quite make out but he recognizes Sasha’s voice. The gates open, and Daryl sees Rosita stationed down below. Tara pulls the Rover inside and Rosita tackles her as soon as she opens the door.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Rosita gushes, pulling Tara in for a tight hug.

“Holy shit, _Daryl_?” Sasha says as she climbs down the ladder. Rosita peels away from Tara, noticing him for the first time. He gives her an awkward smile and a clasped hand, and the same to Sasha.

They introduce the three Hilltop boys. One of them goes non-verbal as soon as he sees Rosita, eyes growing wide and zeroing in on her chest. Tara and Daryl’s appearance must have put her in a good mood because she ignores him instead of pistol-whipping him.

“How long are you two planning on staying?” Sasha asks.

“Just overnight,” Tara says, “We want to get back to the Hilltop early as possible tomorrow.”

Daryl ignores his guilt when she says that, and doesn’t contradict her. 

“Our shift doesn’t end for a couple of hours,” Rosita tells Tara, “but after, if you want to meet up for dinner? Where are you staying?”

“With Rick,” Daryl says. Tara’s mouth tightens. 

“Oh. Well, if you want to stay at our place you’re welcome to,” Sasha says, eyes soft. Daryl declines her offer but Tara says she’d like that, sounding relieved. Daryl tunes the rest of the conversation out. He makes only the appropriate noises at the two women’s “good to see you.”  They load back into the Rover and head for the center of Alexandria.

**********

The last time Daryl saw the Alexandria Safe Zone it was on fire - the entire outside perimeter of houses destroyed and flames threatening the inner ones. The walls held but they couldn't contain the fires and Rick decided it wasn’t safe. Every man, woman and child headed for Hilltop where things had continued to go to hell in new and exciting ways. 

Besides no longer being on fire Alexandria has undergone many changes since Daryl last saw it. Food growing spaces now replace manicured lawns. Almost all have people working in them and there’s a buzzing sense of energy about the place.

They drop their supplies off at the church, which is pulling double duty as town hall. A tall excitable brunette with arms covered in shiny burn scars inventories the supplies. Daryl doesn't recognize her and supposes she's from the Kingdom or the Sanctuary. Yet to his shock she recognizes him and does a double-take.

“Oh my god, are you _that_  Daryl?”

Daryl stares at her, nonplussed. “I guess so?”

“I saw you with Rick Grimes during the battle at Hilltop, and I just…thank you so much. Things are so much better now, with the Saviors gone, it’s amazing. Can I shake your hand? Oh, I’m Annie by the way,” she thrusts her hand out at him without waiting for an answer. He stares down at it like she’s holding a dog turd in it.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tara covering her mouth, eyes sparkling with amusement. Annie the inventory girl’s smile wilts and her cheeks turn pink. It makes him feel like enough of an asshole to give her a quick handclasp to perk her back up. 

“Where is Rick anyway?”

“Mr Grimes is running drills this afternoon, do you want me to tell him you stopped by?”

Mr Grimes, Daryl thinks. Fuck's sake. “Nah. I’ll find ‘im.”

“It was so nice to meet you!” Annie the Inventory Girl chirps.

“Sure,” Daryl says, feeling off balance. He scurries over to Tara and gives her a sour look as she coughs and tries not to laugh.

Her laughter fades as they head out. Tara tells the Hilltop boys they’re free to explore as much as they want and to meet back here in the morning. They don’t need telling twice and they rush off. Tara grows even more somber.

“Um,” she says, “I guess I’ll go to Sasha and Rosita’s place, it’s near Rick’s…we can walk together. I just need to make a quick stop first.”

“Alright,” Daryl says, voice gentle. He knows exactly where she wants to go.

Like everything else in Alexandria the makeshift graveyard has expanded. Some names have faded from the list painted on the surrounding wall, but new ones have replaced them, including, Daryl notes with black amusement, his own - hastily scratched out but still readable. Despite the new markers that have sprung up, they find Denise’s easy enough. Tara kneels down and Daryl hovers behind her.

After a few minutes of silence she says in a thick voice, “I. Uh. I’m actually going to be here a while, if you want to go on to Rick’s.”

“You sure? You good here?”

She gives a sad smile, her eyes wet, “Yeah. I just need some time alone with her for a bit.”

He gets it. “Take as long as you want. I’ll see you when I see you."

She gives another sad little smile, and turns back to the grave. 

********** 

Like every other house in Alexandria, the Grimes’ lawn has been converted to a garden. As Daryl approaches he spies Carl Grimes on his knees digging in the earth, Rick’s old sheriff’s hat pulled down low over his face. Daryl’s face creases into what is almost a smile at the sight of him.

 "Hey boy! Yer Daddy in?” he calls out as soon as he’s close enough. Carl’s head jerks up and there is no “almost” about the smile that splits the boy’s face. He gets to his feet and runs the remaining distance to Daryl, hand outstretched. Daryl slams his own hand into it, and slaps Carl affectionately on the shoulder.

“Daryl! Dad didn’t say you were coming!” he’s grinning. The bandages of six months ago are gone; and in their place Carl is wearing a pair of aviators with the left lens popped out. There’s a bit of scarring that peeks out around it, mostly covered by hair.

“It’s a surprise. Christ boy, you got tall!” He can about look Daryl in the eye. It’s all leg; the kid is a beanpole.

Carl looks pleased with himself, and says, “Wait ’til you see Judith.” He leads Daryl down the walkway to the porch, where a playpen has been set up. Judith is standing, chubby hands gripping the rim of her pen. When the baby sees him she babbles a string of almost words. Her blonde hair is getting darker, her legs have lengthened, and she’s starting to look more like a little girl than a baby.

“Holy shit,” he says, kneeling down to get a closer look.

“That’s nothing,” Carl says, and leans over to scoop her out, “show Uncle Daryl what you can do, Judy.”  When he sets her down the girl stands on wobbly feet, gives her brother a smile, and toddles over a few steps to Daryl. A real smile spreads helplessly across Daryl's face when she reaches up and touches the buttons on his jacket, fascinated.

“Hell yeah, girl,” he says, “you’ll be leading runs before the year’s over. Ain’t that right, Lil’ Asskicker?”

Carl laughs, “I almost forgot you used to call her that. Seriously, I can’t believe you’re here."

Carl's face changes, and Daryl feels old. Carl looks like a goddamned _man_ with that expression.

“Everything is ok at Hilltop, right? Jesus was just here, said you were working on getting the solar panels hooked up—”

Daryl tries not to flinch, then turns his attention to Judith so he’ll have an excuse not to make eye contact. “Things are fine. We got the crops planted earlier this month and the solar panels rigged up just last night…and, uh. Glenn’s doing real good, he gets around easy as anything these days.” This is an exaggeration, but not by much. Six months on and Glenn has adjusted better than anyone could have hoped, but he still struggles from time to time. “He and Maggie have things pretty organized up there. When do you expect your folks back? Lady at the church said your Dad was doing drills, but she didn’t say how long he’d be, or if Michonne was with him.”

Carl glances at the sky, “They’ll be a while yet. Michonne’s in the woods, she’s training people to take over patrols. You can go in and rest for a bit if you want. I’m supposed to have this,” he waves a hand at the garden, “finished by the time they get back." 

“It’ll go faster with two,” Daryl says.

It’s hard work but Daryl is grateful, it helps quiet the frantic thoughts that have been buzzing around since he fled the Hilltop this morning.

As they work Carl fills him in on the goings on in Alexandria over the past six months. Daryl knows most of it already from Rick and Michonne’s letters, but he’s not really listening to the details, just using the chance to observe Carl. The kid is doing better than when Daryl saw him last. More relaxed and like the fucking kid he still is.

“There’s been a lot of new building under way, Eugene has this crazy idea to make a windmill, to grind flour. Some greenhouses like at Hilltop, so we can grow year round. Maybe a separate building for the jail, so...” Carl trails off. He stares hard at the dirt and doesn’t speak for a bit. Daryl lets him be.

Unlike Daryl and Michonne, Negan had treated Carl well during those weeks they spent as his “guests”. Negan seemed to _like_ the kid, something Daryl found more disturbing than anything else. Carl seemed to agree. His coldness and anger after their escape scared the hell out of Daryl and Michonne both. Daryl can’t forget having to tackle him to the ground outside the gates of Alexandria. Negan’s people were laying covering fire as they retreated but Carl had stayed on his feet and kept firing. His other eye would have been shot out if Daryl hadn’t pulled him to the ground.

“It doesn’t seem right, that he gets to live,” Carl says in a low, hard voice.

“That was your dad’s call,” Daryl says.

“Do you think he made the right one?”

“Don’t matter what I think,” Daryl answers.

They work in silence for a while after that. After they finish Daryl has time for a quick shower, something he desperately needs. When he gets out he smells of soap and nothing else.

 *********

Daryl is on the porch smoking a cigarette when Michonne and Rick come home. They’re walking arm and arm in a casually affectionate way that makes something in Daryl’s chest constrict. They’re almost to the steps before they notice him. Michonne spots him first, a smile lighting up her face. She’s a knockout when she smiles, is Michonne. The twisting scar on her right cheek hasn’t changed that. Rick sees him next, and his grin rivals hers. It’s embarrassing as hell. So are the hugs from both of them he’s forced to submit to.

“We didn’t expect to see you,” Rick says, when he’s gotten his mushiness out of his system.

Daryl shrugs, “It was time, I guess.”

“Are you planning on staying?” Michonne asks. She’s still smiling, and it makes something in him untwist just a little.

“For the time being.”

“We’re glad to hear it,” Rick says, and clasps Daryl’s shoulder, “We missed you. Come on inside.”

**********

It turns out Alexandria has adopted Hilltop’s custom of communal meals. As that was probably his least favorite thing about living there, he is happy when Michonne suggests making dinner here, just the family. Also less chance of running into Tara. He’ll be able to put off telling her he’s not coming back a little while longer.

Michonne does most of the cooking with Carl as her loyal assistant. Rick offers to help, but Michonne and Carl just give him a look and the former tells him to stay the fuck away from the food.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You can put the baby to bed if you want to make yourself useful. Then make sure Daryl’s bed is set up.”

Rick jumps up and goes to follow her orders. Daryl sits in the kitchen at the table, watching Carl and Michonne work and doing more catching up. He asks after Eugene and Father Gabriel, then if she’d heard much from Carol.

“Probably less than you, Jesus goes to the Kingdom more than anyone here,” Michonne answers.

“Is the tiger still shitting on her bed?” Carl asks gleefully.

“Last letter she said that she and Shiva have come to an understanding to have joint custody of Ezekiel,” Daryl says. He’s glad Michonne doesn’t notice he’s been rattled by her casual mention of Paul.

“I miss her,” Michonne says, “but I’m glad she seems happy.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees. Her letters convey a feeling of peace he doesn’t think she’s had in a long time. Daryl still thinks “King” Ezekiel is a bag of wind and bullshit but the man apparently treats Carol like a queen so Daryl tolerates him.

“Stuff is settling down a little, travel between communities should be easier. We always need more runners to the Kingdom if you were interested.”

Daryl gets a lump in his throat. He misses Carol all the time but he’s gotten used to it for the most part. Michonne casually suggesting that he pay her a visit brings the feeling back to its original intensity. He badly wants to talk to Carol, she’s probably the only one he thinks he could talk to about everything.

“I’m interested,” he says with feeling.

**********

“So the trip here went ok?” Michonne asks after they’ve settled down to the table and are filling their plates. She and Carl have made a rich potato and venison stew. It smells amazing.

“Mmm-hmm,” Daryl mumbles, tucking into his bowl. It’s thick and hearty and just what he needs after a long trip and a day of hard labor.

“You want anything to drink with that?” Rick asks, “we’ve got some of that cider Eugene concocted, have you tried it? Jesus said he’d give some to you.”

“It tasted like shit,” Daryl says, too fast, “what’s this training thing you’ve been doing?” he asks Michonne.

She stares at him for a second, and Daryl does not like her expression. It’s entirely too sharp and Daryl feels like she can see right through him. Sweat breaks out at the back of his neck.

She doesn’t question his abrupt subject shift, however. Instead she describes her training program. They want every single person able to fight for this place, and every single person able to survive if they have to flee again.

 “You’d be a big help, if you were interested,” Rick chimes in, “Not many people know how to hunt or track period, much less do it as well as you. I want everyone to know the basics, down to the kids eventually. We’ve got a lot of kids whose first trip outside these walls was when we all went to Hilltop.”

 “You want _me_ to teach kids shit? Like…scouts or something?”

Carl finds the notion of “Scoutmaster Dixon” hilarious. Daryl endures some good-natured teasing. Michonne says they can make him a uniform if he wants. There is a lot of laughter, and Daryl finds himself joining in more than once. Every now and then he catches Michonne’s eye, and she is always giving him that assessing look. 

********** 

Carl retreats to his bedroom after dinner while the adults head for the porch.

The sun is setting, turning the sky pink and orange. It’s still chilly in the evenings, but Daryl likes it outside. At Hilltop people are going to and fro at all hours of the day and most of the night. Here the street is empty and the community is quiet save for a few distant noises from the church, where community dinners are held.

Daryl doesn’t have long to enjoy it, because after only a few minutes he spots a figure walking down the street towards the Grimes residence. He recognizes her immediately, and his heart sinks. He was hoping to put this off until tomorrow.

“Is that Tara?” Michonne asks.

“Yeah,” says Daryl, and takes a drag from his cigarette to fortify himself as she comes up the walkway then mounts the steps to the house. Rick gets to his feet, smiling hopefully.

“Hey Rick,” she says, shaking his hand, “Michonne.”

“Tara. It’s good to see you,” replies Rick. Tara gives him a smile that is a little strained but still genuine. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch up with you earlier,” she says, looking down at her shoes for a moment, “I had some things to take care of.”

“It’s fine, I’m just glad you’re here,” Rick says, and he means it.

“We just ate, but if you’re hungry we can get you something,” Michonne offers.

“Nah, I’m going to go eat with Rosita and Sasha. I wanted to talk to Daryl for a second. And…and I just wanted to come and say hi. To all of you.”

Rick’s eyes grow soft. “Well, you’re always welcome,” he says. When Tara smiles again it’s warmer.

“I am glad to see you,” she says, and looks down at her feet, embarrassed. “Um,” she lifts her eyes to Daryl, “we’re leaving early tomorrow...in case we run into anything else unexpected on the road." 

“I thought you were staying?” Michonne says, a frown line between her brows.

Daryl becomes very interested in his lighter, flicking it on and off. Unable to meet Tara’s eyes, he gives a curt nod, “Yeah, that’s right.” Tara looks shocked and hurt when he finally meets her eyes.

“You didn’t tell me that this morning! What did Glenn and Maggie say? What did J-”

“It ain’t a big deal,” Daryl answers.

“Did you tell _anyone_?”

“It was a last minute thing,” he shrugs, “I talked to Maggie and Glenn about it, but hadn’t made up my mind.” Daryl is very aware of Rick and Michonne’s eyes on him. The latter of which looks like she can tell how full of shit Daryl is. He had talked to Maggie and Glenn about the possibility of him returning to Alexandria, but that was over a month ago. And he had most definitely made up his mind not to return within minutes of waking up this morning.

Tara looks from Daryl to Rick and Michonne, shifts her feet and says, “look, can I talk to you for a second?”

Daryl wants to tell her there’s nothing to say, but he knows if he does that Tara will speak her piece in front of Rick and Michonne. So he gets up and follows her down the porch steps and along the walkway to the street.

Tara stops, and turns around, glancing at Rick and Michonne.“Um,” Tara says, “this doesn’t have anything to do with what we talked about in the library, does it?”

Daryl considers playing dumb, but knows that will drag things out longer and wants this done, “No, it don’t.” It’s technically true, “Just wanted to come back here. They don’t need me anymore up there.”

“We need everyone up there,” Tara says, “come on, Daryl. After all we’ve been through, I thought,” she trails off, “I don’t know what I thought.”

Daryl feels like shit, but he doesn’t bend, “Look, sorry it came up all the sudden. It’s not like you’ll never see me again, the roads are being fixed, it will be easier to travel this summer. I’ll probably show up ‘fore too long on a run myself.” This is a lie, but she doesn’t notice it. 

“I just don’t understand,” she says, “are you sure you don’t want to come back tomorrow?”

Daryl scrapes his shoe against the dirt and nods. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Do you have any messages or anything you want me to bring back?” 

"Nah.” 

Tara looks like she wants to say something more, but doesn’t. When Daryl glances at her she looks on the verge of tears. Guilt twists in him, and he gives her shoulder an awkward pat. It doesn’t seem to help much.

“Ok,” she says, “ok. I’ll see you around, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl says. 

********** 

“Tara seemed upset,” Rick says after Daryl rejoins them on the porch. 

Daryl shrugs. “Yeah. Well. Must’ve gotten used to me. I was there for a while.” 

“Yeah, you were. I’ll be honest, I’m surprised we didn’t see you sooner,” Rick says. He doesn’t sound accusing, just a little puzzled. 

“Was hurt too bad, then Glenn needed help,” he shrugs again, “then the weather, you know.” This is only partly true, a lot of things kept him at Hilltop for the past six months, not the least of which is the guilt he gets whenever he catches sight of that scar on Michonne’s cheek. The feeling’s not as strong as it had been six months ago, but it’s still there.

“And now?” Michonne asks. She’s staring at him hard, and Daryl doesn’t like the look on her face. How do women always fucking know everything?

“Now he’s fine,” Daryl answers, or a given value of fine, he supposes, “he manages. They’ve accomplished a lot over there.”

“So we’ve heard,” Rick said, “I know you were a big help with that, she said so in her letters.”

“It was mostly her ‘n Glenn,” Daryl says, uncomfortable at this praise. _And Paul_ , a traitorous part of his brain reminds him.

“Things are good,” Rick says, “we’ve all come a long way.”

The three of them sit on the porch and thankfully talk of nothing more than planned projects — Michonne wants to eventually start building settlements outside the walls, clear out the dead and strengthen more territory. The success of the solar panel installation at Hilltop makes them both want to try it at the other communities, maybe figure out a way to set up some form of communication.

Daryl listens to them talk, both of them sounding content and full of hope for the future. It makes his heart ache. Glenn and Maggie are much the same these days, talking about trying to get pregnant again, the idea of raising a family no longer a dangerous delusion. Daryl misses the days when it was just the group of them fighting for their lives. Things seemed much simpler then. He knew where he belonged and what he needed to do, there was a certainty in everything he did.

 

**********

His room in the attic is unchanged from the last time he was here, just a spare mattress on the floor. He falls into it with a heavy sigh. He’s exhausted and just wants a few hours of rest. 

It doesn’t come to him. He hadn’t been prepared for how seeing Rick and the others would stir up things he thought he’d buried over the past six months.

That night in the woods replays when he closes his eyes. The memories haven’t bothered him in a while, but they still maintain their typical hellish clarity.

_Crouched shivering and bleeding and so weak he could barely stay upright. After the first swing of that fucking bat half of Abe’s face caved in, he’d been hit so hard his eyeball had popped out and lay on his cheek. The smell of blood and shit filled the air._

_“Damn! Taking it like a champ!” Negan crowed in his hatefully cheerful voice._

_After had been worse._

_“I’m going to kill you,” Rick said, “maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But sometime.” This just made Negan grin a sly Cheshire Cat grin._

_“I can see you’re still having trouble learning the rules. It’s cool; I can see you’re a slow learner. But a good teacher works best with slow learners! Hmmmm…”_

_Negan studied the lineup, bat slung over one shoulder. He gave Rick another sly smile, then walked over to Maggie._

_“You’re the Asian kid’s over there, right? Not you,” he hummed again, studied Sasha and Rosita who were still staring at Abe’s body and sobbing. Then he zeroed in on Michonne. She met his gaze without fear, even as he raised the bat high above her head._

_Rick erupted at that. Daryl even tried to get up, only to receive a savage kick in his injured shoulder. “Stay down, asshole,” Dwight hissed, too late. Negan paused with the bat still raised, looking from Rick to Daryl._

_“Ooh, what was that?” Negan sounded delighted. He lowered his bat and moved to Daryl, maintaining eye contact with Rick._

_Daryl found himself on the other end of that fucking bat again. There were bits of gore and bone caught in the barbed wire. Daryl could see a few ginger hairs stuck in the blood._

_“I’ll make it easy on you, Rick. Which one?”_

_Rick looked sick, with a scary blankness on his face. Daryl had no illusions over who Rick would choose. He wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it hadn’t been Daryl’s fault she was in this mess to begin with. He looked at Michonne, her eyes were bright but she wasn’t crying, even after everything. Wouldn’t give Negan the satisfaction._

_“Rick? I need an answer or I’m doing them both.”_

_“I’m sorry Daryl,” Rick’s voice was barely audible. Daryl nodded at him, thinking_ it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok _, at Rick as hard as he could. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the end._

 _It didn’t come. Instead he heard Negan say, “Ok, the boy, the vagina, and hardcase here. Those three.”_  

_He was pulled roughly to his feet, and when he opened his eyes he saw the same thing happening to Michonne. Rick held it together until they went for Carl. It took two men holding him back and a third punching him in the gut to stop him._

_“Now now, I promise not to harm a single hair on his head, or a splinter of bone in his empty socket. Same for your vagina and hardcase. They’re going to stay with us for a bit, as insurance on your good behavior.”_

_Even beaten and restrained, Rick nearly pulled free. His eyes were wild and Michonne was saying something, trying to get him to calm down. It wasn’t working._

_“Stop!” shouted Carl. He’d gotten to his feet and was glaring at Negan. “Dad, stop! Get your shit together!” Rick froze, and turned his glazed eyes to his son._

_“Look at that! You’ve got a giant set of balls on you, young man!” Negan crowed._

_“Carl…” Rick sounded small and broken._

  _Carl didn’t even glance at his father. He just stood there straight backed and steady, not even batting his eye when Negan sauntered up and got right in his face. After a long time Negan burst out laughing, “I’m not going to lie to you kid, you scare the fucking shit out of me,” he said in that good humored voice. “Get ‘em in the van.”_

_Carl glared with pure disdain at the Saviors who came to collect him , and headed for the van before they could lay hands on him. The kid didn’t look back, and in spite of his pain and horror and grief Daryl was proud as hell of him._

Daryl tries to push those memories away. If he lets them take hold, the entire fucking war will decide to replay itself in his head, or when he falls asleep he’ll dream of it. Neither option is appealing. The last time he dreamed of that night in the woods he hadn’t been able to sleep for days after, not until- he tries to cut that line of thought off, but it’s too late. The memory that comes is just as unwelcome as any from the war.

_Sleep was still impossible, every time he closed his eyes he saw Abe’s head bust open. So he poked around his dark room and found the crossbow bolts he’d been working on. They needed fletching and it was a good activity to occupy himself with as he didn’t need to be mentally alert._

_He went to the trailer’s living room, lit a lantern, and settled down on the floor to work. He was only at it for a few minutes when he heard a stirring from Paul’s room, and the man himself came out not long after._

_He gave Daryl a rueful smile and said, “still can’t sleep, huh?”_

_Daryl nodded, glad he didn’t have to explain. Paul understood better than anyone about sleepless nights. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” Daryl said._

_Paul shrugged, “I’ve been awake, I heard you get up. Figured if you were up I’d use your light, read for a little bit.” Supplies were tight and Paul had been religiously efficient about burning lantern oil. Daryl murmured companionably, and Paul stretched out on the couch. Daryl shifted closer so the lantern could be put between them. An hour passed, and Daryl rubbed his eyes. They were hot and itchy, sleep had only come in snatches the past few nights._

_He was so danged tired. He put his arrows aside and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, lulled by the sound of Paul’s steady breathing. “What are you reading?” he asked Paul eventually._

  _“The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. This isn’t my favorite translation, but it was the only one I could find,” Paul answered, “One fine day I will brave a trip into DC so I can raid the Library of Congress and the Hays translation is number two on my list.”_

_“Fuckin’ nerd.”_

_“Guilty,” Paul said, and Daryl could hear the smile in his voice. “Have you read Marcus Aurelius?”_

_“Do I look like I’ve read ‘im?”_

_“I’ve learned not to make assumptions about you, Mr Dixon.”_

_“What’s it about? Name sounds familiar, was it a movie?”_

_“No, but Aurelius was a character in a very terrible and inaccurate movie with Russell Crowe. He was a Roman emperor. And it’s about…it’s letters he wrote to himself. His thoughts and how to be a virtuous man.”_

 " _Sounds like a good insomnia cure. Read it to me?” Daryl asked._

  _Paul was quiet for a bit, and Daryl heard the rustle of pages turning, then, “the Emperor writes: ‘Though you should live three thousand years and as many times ten thousand years, still remember that no man loses any other life than this which he now lives, nor lives any other than this which he now loses. The longest and shortest are thus brought to the same. For the present is the same to all, though that which perish is not the same;and so that which is lost appears to be a mere moment. For a man cannot lose either the past or the future: for what a man has not, how can any one take this from him? These two things then you must bear in mind; the one, that all things from eternity are of like forms and come round in a circle, and that it makes no difference whether a man shall see the same things during a hundred years, or two hundred, or an infinite time; and the second, that the longest lived and he who will die soonest lose just the same.’”_

  _Paul kept reading, his words a soothing murmur. Daryl’s eyes were closed for what seemed like only a few minutes, but when he opened them again weak morning light was filtering through the trailer’s windows. Paul was gone and there was a blanket tucked around Daryl’s shoulders._

 In the Grimes family house months later Daryl stares at the ceiling and does not sleep for a long time.

  
***********


	2. Then

 

Rick never told him that the thing about being in a coma is that you aren’t out then suddenly awake. Instead it’s a spectrum of awareness that changes from moment to moment.

Daryl is in a coma for five days. He spends that time in a kaleidoscope of fractured dreams and memories. He’s at Terminus only Merle is there; sometimes he is one of the butchers and other times he’s one of the gutted bodies hung on hooks. It’s that night in the woods again only instead of Abraham it’s Glenn that Negan picks. Like Abe, half the kid’s skull is pulverized and his eye is knocked loose from the socket. He’s still able to slur out, “M-m-m-Maggie!” before Negan hits him again, bits of bone and teeth flying.

He sees Carol standing over him, face pinched and tight. “Asshole,” she says, “You do not get to die, do you hear me?”

Dreams and memories fade. he sees Rick leaning over him, “I’m sorry brother. I don’t want to leave you, but it’s not over. I know you’ll wake up, though. We’ll see each other again.”

 *************

His first moment of true awareness is waking up on a hospital bed that is curtained off by hideous floral sheets hung on a jury rigged clothes line. On his right is an equally hideous kitchen chair and on his left are beeping machines. He isn’t able to inventory much more, as that’s when he realizes he’s strapped to the bed.

He panics. Dreams and memories are still jumbled together, and he’s convinced he’s back in the Sanctuary. Only instead of chaining him to a wall and giving him some freedom of movement they’ve tied him down completely, he can’t move or defend himself.

The sheet beside him flaps open and a figure comes in. His vision is blurry and he can’t quite make it out, which of the guards is it—

“Daryl! Daryl, you need to stop that!” There’s a hand against his chest pressing him down. It’s unnecessary, he recognizes the voice and it calms him down at once.

“Carol?” he rasps.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she answers. His vision has cleared and he can make her out now. She looks tired. “We’re ok, you need to calm down, you’ll hurt yourself worse. I’m sorry we had to strap you down, but you kept trying to take your IV lines out. Wait a minute.”

She goes to the restraints holding his wrists down and undoes them. He brings his arms up to his chest when she’s finished, .

“Where are we?” Daryl’s throat is raw and sore.

“Hilltop,” Carols says. He feels her hand in his hair, stroking it soothingly.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Daryl tries to think, it’s all a twisted mess of memory and dream. Scenes of the past six weeks (had it only been that long since that horrible night in the woods?) flash by in a disjointed mess.

 He can remember Alexandria in flames. He can remember lying the back of the van after Negan killed Abe. Michonne and Carl leaning over and trying to slow the blood gushing from his shoulder. He can remember weeks later, laying siege to the Sanctuary with the combined forces of Hilltop, Alexandria, and the Kingdom. Alexandria again, the Saviors hurling grenades over the wall. One flying right towards him only to be snatched out of the air by Paul Rovia and thrown back over. The deadly exodus from Alexandria to the Hilltop after the Saviors’ attack is his last memory.

 When he relates this to Carol, she says, “You were lookout on the gates when the Saviors rammed them with a truck.” As soon as she says it he remembers. A bright red tractor trailer covered in spikes hurtling towards the gate. Shooting at it even as his fellow lookouts dove for cover, hoping desperately to at least _slow_ it.

Shit. “Negan? The Saviors?”

“They got in, brought some of the dead with them. But we won,” she sounds almost bitter at that last statement.

 “Where are the others? Did we lose any of our people?” He’s afraid of the answer.

 “No, everyone’s still alive and mostly in one piece,” Carol is quick to reassure him, “Everyone in our family, at least.”

The relief he feels almost makes him burst into tears. He can’t speak for several minutes. Carol waits for him to collect himself. "Where is everyone?" he finally asks. 

“Rick took most of the Alexandria group back home. Gregory tried to surrender to Negan after the walls were breached. Maggie knocked him out then started bossing everyone here around. At some point they all decided she was in charge. So Glenn’s here too. So is Tara, she didn’t want to go back. You’re here because you weren’t in any shape to be moved.”

Daryl tries to process that. The family scattered again, not as bad as after the prison but they still were apart, he had no idea what could be happening now to Rick or Michonne or Carl or any of the others. It makes his heart feel like it’s been ripped in half. “You’re here too,” Daryl says, grateful for that much.

“I wasn’t going to leave until I was sure you’d wake up.”

“Were you planning to leave after?” Daryl says, staring hard at her.

Carol doesn’t answer his question, just says quietly, “Get some rest, ok?”

He wants to get her to answer the question first, but a wave of exhaustion hits him, as though her words were a magic spell. He doesn’t have it in him to argue.

Daryl closes his eyes, feels himself starting to drift off when something clicks in his head, and he jerks awake.

“Mostly?” he asks.

Carol has started to walk away, and she freezes. “What?”

“You said ‘mostly in one piece,’” He swallows hard, “Was anyone else hurt?”

Carol’s face is drawn, “We all got hurt,” she says, hand going unconsciously to her arm. She’d mostly healed from her wounds by the time of the final battle but he imagines that it still pains her, “But you and Glenn were the only ones who got badly hurt.”

He waits, heart in his throat, “Will he be ok?” Surely she would have told him immediately if he wouldn’t be.

Carol lets out something that’s too low and angry to be a laugh, “His _injuries_ won’t kill him. A flash grenade went off too close to his face. He can’t see anymore.”

 Daryl lets that sink in. “Motherfuck,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn't ask if it's something that can be fixed or will go away, he knows the answer. Being blinded would have been difficult enough in the world _before,_ now it’s a death sentence.

“Yeah,” Carol says.

*************

 He sleeps for a long time after that. Real sleep, not the weird purgatory of a coma. When he wakes up a second time his head is clearer and he’s able to take stock of things. Doctor Carson comes, shines a light in his eyes and studies the beeping machines.

“Where’s Carol?” Daryl asks during this process.

“I made her take a break before she became another patient,” Carson says, taking out a stethoscope, “Breathe deep for me.”

 Daryl submits to the doctor’s inspection. Carson looks satisfied when he’s finished. “You got very lucky,” Carson tells him. Daryl doesn’t have the energy to tell the Doctor to go fuck himself. He certainly doesn’t _feel_ lucky.

More skin than not is black and blue and tender. What isn’t bruised is covered in scrapes and cuts, they are mostly healed. A few needed stitches and are covered in bandages. There’s a shiny white scar, about the size of a quarter, in his left shoulder. This souvenir from being shot still bothers him but it’s drowned out by the various other new pains in his body. His head aches and white spots dance around his vision if he tries to sit up. Doc says he had a hairline fracture, and the only real treatment is rest and painkillers.

His right leg is the worst thing, it’s busted in two places and the entire thing is encased in a heavy plaster cast from ankle up to his mid-thigh. It’s propped up on a pile of pillows and it itches so bad he thinks it might drive him insane.

“You’re going to need to be careful with the leg,” Carson says, “It’s going to take a while for it to be strong enough to support any weight. Still it would be nice for you to get up and move around some if you think you can.” 

As if on cue the curtain flips up again and a big guy in his mid-twenties with blond hair and generic good looks comes in.

“Doctor, Mrs Sanderson’s fever is back. It’s not dangerously high but she should have kicked it by now.”

“I’ll check on her. Daryl, this is Alex, he’ll look after you while Carol’s resting.” Carson says, and goes off to check on his other patient.

When he’s gone Alex asks if he wants to try getting up, he’ll take Daryl to the bathroom or outside if he wants. Daryl doesn’t give a fuck about getting out of doors but he’d like to not have to use the bedpan, so he nods. Alex goes to fetch an old as fuck wheelchair made from wicker and steel and looking like it was left over from when this place was a museum.

“Carol told me a lot about you,” Alex says as he helps Daryl into a sitting position. “Your friend is an amazing person, she should be a nurse. She has a real gift,” Alex helps Daryl swing his good leg to the floor, never letting up in his inane patter.

“You’re doing well, I knew you’d wake up,” he says, “I know it sounds kinda…woo woo,” he throws up his fingers in air quotes at the last words, “But I think how you heal from an injury depends on how well you _mentally_ heal from it, how much strength you have as a person. You’ve got a lot, I can always tell, it just shines out of some people.” Daryl hates him.

Maneuvering the broken leg is even more difficult than it looked. Daryl glares at the cast, something Doctor Carson says Daryl will have to endure for ten weeks if he wants to ever walk without pain again. He considers telling him to cut the damn thing off; Hershel had healed from his amputation faster than that. Daryl considers it far more seriously when he stands up for the first time. Blood rushes down to the area of the break and he feels like screaming. He would have fallen back in bed if he weren’t being held up by Alex.

Daryl grits his teeth until it passes, and Alex helps him walk a few feet to the old as fuck wheelchair. When he’s settled Alex pushes him out of his curtained off little sanctuary.

Daryl gets a good look at the room for the first time—he realizes they’re in the library of Barrington House, where that streak of shit Gregory used to hold court. It’s been converted to a makeshift infirmary; Daryl can see three other curtained off beds.

The trip to the john is arduous. When they get there Alex asks if Daryl needs his help going about it and the glare he gets is enough to dim his niceness for a fraction of a second.

When they get back to the makeshift infirmary Daryl is exhausted and he gratefully falls back into bed. The pain that has been sleeping is wide awake now. Alex sees this right away and gives him some oxycontin. Daryl decides the guy is ok after all.

Daryl hates how fucking helpless he feels. It’s worse than when Dwight shot him, then he was up and could move around the day after, arm strapped to his chest and lopsided but still mobile. Or as mobile as the chain tethering him to the wall of his cell allowed him, at any rate. With any luck Walkers would break into Hilltop before too long; being devoured alive was starting to sound like a preferable alternative to wheelchairs and annoyingly nice nurses.

*************

The next time he wakes up he is paid a visit by Maggie. She’s lost a ton of weight and there are dark circles like bruises under her eyes. 

“You look like shit,” he tells her.

“You look worse,” she answers, smiling a little.

Daryl huffs out a breath that’s not quite a laugh.

She takes a seat in the ugly chair, studying him. “How you feeling?”

“Like a wall fell on me.”

“That’s what happens when you play chicken with a six ton truck,” her face gets serious, “You slowed it down, at least. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

 “Mmm,” he grumbles. Daryl has survived this shitshow long enough to know things can always get worse but it’s not much comfort to him. If he had gotten out of the way he’d have been on his feet and able to help take out the remaining Savior outposts and maybe Glenn would still have the use of his eyes.

 "Where’s Glenn?” he asks.

Maggie’s face goes still. “Carol told you what happened, right?” Daryl nods, and Maggie continues, “He uh…we’re staying in Gregory’s old room. He doesn’t like to leave it,” her voice is strained.

It’s a punch to the gut to hear that. “He’s tough,” Daryl tries to reassure her, “If anyone can push through this it’s him.”

Maggie looks away. He knows she wants to believe him, but despair had etched deep lines in her face. Her voice shaking, she says, “I don’t know how to help him. It’s like he just wants to give up.”

Daryl can’t think of a response; any reassurances would sound hollow.

“Anyway,” Maggie says, wiping at her eyes, “I just wanted to see you, make sure you’re alright. There’s a lot that needs to be done and someone decided I’m the one who needs to figure out how to do it.”

*************

When Carol returns he begs her not to leave him to Alex again.

“Don’t be a prick, Alex is a sweet kid,” Carol says, “C’mon, let’s take a look at you.”

Daryl submits to her ministrations with minimal grousing. After poking and prodding him for a bit she goes to fetch a large pot of water, soap, and some rags. She tosses a rag at him and said, “Clean yourself up, or the next time you fall asleep I’m strapping you down and wheeling you outside to use the garden hose.”

Despite what conclusions others might draw about his personal hygiene Daryl likes being clean when it’s convenient so the threat is unnecessary. Sitting in the bed makes him feel grimier than walking days through Walker infested woods. “Look away,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“Not like I haven’t seen it all before. You were out for five days and someone had to wipe you down,” she says, but still turns her back to him. She remains inside the little curtained off area, the other patients shifting and snuffling not far away. Daryl feels like they’re two kids who have set up a tent in the living room. 

“We never speak of that again, ok?” he mutters, dipping the cloth in water and scrubbing it against the soap. As he starts wiping down his face he asks Carol to give him more details about how the final fight had gone down.

“Well, you after you got taken out the Saviors and a bunch of Walkers got in. It wasn’t pretty, but we beat them back in the end.”

He listens with horror as she tells him about the Saviors “gunking” up their weapons—covering them with bits of Walker flesh so that even a scratch would kill someone. Dwight had shot Rick with a crossbow, leading Negan to believe Rick was doomed.

“He sure does like shooting people and claiming it was for their own good,” Daryl growls to himself. He has to scrub his chest, arms, and legs several times before he feels clean.

“It did the trick; Negan retreated, thought they just needed to wait until Rick was dead, and then attack.” He takes a look at her; even though he can’t see her face he can see the lines of tension in her back, hear the carefulness in her voice.

“Spit it out,” he says.

“You aren’t going to like this,” she says. He waits, then, “Dwight kept his word, did what he promised. Rick let him go, he took the Saviors who turned on Negan back to the Sanctuary. He’s in charge now, and he agreed to a trading partnership with all of us.”

Daryl’s jaw drops.

“Fuck. That,” This is all Daryl is able to get out; he’s being choked slowly by rage.

“To be honest it was probably the worst punishment Rick could have given him. He doesn’t want to be in charge, I don’t think.”

It’s good Daryl’s leg is broken in two places, as he’d be on his feet and headed toward the Sanctuary if not. The thought of Dwight getting off and going back on his merry way after everything makes him feel sick with rage. He finds his hand going unconsciously to his barely healed shoulder wound.

“Bullshit, how could Rick let him walk?”

“Can I turn around? This is something I think I should tell you face to face,” Carol says, voice neutral. Daryl covers himself with a sheet and tells her he’s decent.

She doesn’t look at him in the eye at first; instead she focuses on the scar on his shoulder.

“Rick let Negan live too,” she says, looking him in the eye.

Daryl stares at her, not believing what he’s hearing. “Bullshit. After all…after _everything_ he did, Rick let him _go_?”

“No, he let him _live._ Rick said he’s going to be in a cell in Alexandria for the rest of his life.”

“Has he lost his fucking _mind_?”

“It’s a symbol,” Carol says, “That we’re better than them. That we aren’t afraid of them.”

“Symbol my ass, Rick should have put a bullet between his eyes.”

“Well, you’ll have to take that up with Rick,” she says.

Dwight’s ugly face flashes in Daryl’s memory, standing over Denise’s lifeless body. This thing has a hell of a kick. The fucker getting the drop on him and shooting him, getting Glenn and Michonne captured. Dwight may have helped them later out of self-interest but they weren’t square, not by a longshot, and having to swallow the fact Dwight and even _Negan_ lived and breathed when so many others didn’t is next to impossible.

“Tara, what did she say about this? ‘Bout Dwight?”

“She pulled a gun on Rick when he stopped her from going after him. It got ugly,” Carol says, “Look, I agree with you about Negan, I think he’s too dangerous to be left alive,” she closes her eyes for a moment and her jaw twitches, “But I’m done killing people, Daryl. As for Dwight, having him in charge of the Sanctuary is better than the alternative. Less people will die this way.”

She looks tired, genuinely so in a way he hasn’t seen since he woke up. He’s almost forgotten that she herself had only barely recovered from her own injuries. 

“It ain’t right,” he mumbles. But what was right or fair didn’t mean shit before the end of the world and now it means even less. Part of him wishes he hadn’t woken up.

Carol comes and lays her hand in his, giving his fingers a squeeze. “Finish cleaning up,” she murmurs.

*************

“It won’t bring her back,” Tara says in a dull voice when she visits later.

Daryl knows this; and he also knows that Tara has more right to grief and anger over Denise then he ever will. He still can’t find it in him to accept it. Tara looks at him and gives a sad smile.

“I’ve tried the getting angry thing,” she says, “I pulled a gun on Rick when he let Dwight go. I think I came very close to getting a katana through my heart that time.” She takes in a harsh breath, “I’d still think it would be worth it, to march over there and blow Dwight’s brains out myself. But I wouldn’t walk away from it, though. And people need me,” she finishes softly.

“It’s still shit,” Daryl says.

“I know. I try to tell myself that Denise wouldn’t want me to be like this. She became a doctor to help people. She’d want me to do what helps the most people.”

Daryl turns that over in his mind, “Does it help?”

“Fuck no,” Tara says.

Daryl nods. He didn’t think so.

*****************

Tara and Maggie don’t visit often or for very long. They’re busy; insanely busy. So much shit got fucked up during the war.

“It’s a fucking mess,” Maggie tells him, frustration putting a little color in her cheeks. “Gregory…he never bothered to figure out exactly how many people were here. Do you remember how Deanna said what we did before mattered? He doesn’t seem to care, happy to play lord of the manor while the serfs toil in the fields.”

She sighs in frustration, pinching her nose, “Things would be going so much faster if things were _organized_. Jesus is helping, but I need him for runs and scouting missions before anything else. Ogden got away, took a dozen or so people with him.”

Daryl flinches at the name, dull rage gripping him. Negan’s second-in-command and every bit as fucking crazy. _Pick one, kid. Mommy or hardcase here, one of them is going to be punished for what you did._  Daryl recoils from that particular memory. It’s not one he wants to revisit, none of his time at the Sanctuary are.

Maggie sees his reaction and says, “We’re still looking for them. We’re not going to stop looking for them; every one of the communities is sending people out. If that fucker comes back he’s going to have to face all of us.”

*****************

Over the following days Glenn still doesn’t come, but Paul Rovia (Daryl refuses to call him Jesus) does. Daryl hears him before he sees him, Paul stops to say hello to the other two patients (Mrs Sanderson had gotten well enough to leave) in the infirmary.

Daryl wonders if Paul will stop to pay him a visit as well. He also wonders whether or not he wants him to. He’s leaning toward not. Despite everything Paul done during the war the man still irritates the living hell out of Daryl. Only part of it was leftover bad feeling from their first meeting. Daryl would have let it go and called them square after Paul busted them out of the Sanctuary, as at the time he was understandably overwhelmed with gratitude and goodwill.

The little prick ruined that, of course. Because as soon as they started gearing up for war whenever Paul wasn’t plotting with Rick or making runs his chief form of entertainment was fucking with one Daryl Dixon.

Daryl has lost count of how many keys, lighters, and other bits and pieces vanished from his pockets. When Paul got bored with that form of fuckery he stopped taking things and started slipping in new things. Daryl’s hand would slide into his pocket, encounter something unfamiliar, and hope to hell it was nothing too mortifying. It could be anything—a gaudy plastic ring that looked like it came from a gumball machine, a pewter teaspoon, a pink eraser shaped like a dinosaur, unfamiliar coins that Michonne said were Euros.

The most memorable item had been an ancient condom in a camouflage wrapper with the words, “They’ll never see you coming!” printed in yellow on the front. 

Daryl still owes him an ass beating for that one, even if he also owes Paul his life twice over. Some things just cannot stand. It will have to wait until his leg is out of this damned cast.

The curtains flip open and Paul Rovia sticks his head in. He smiles when he sees that Daryl is awake.

“Mr Dixon,” he says, “Good to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living.”

Daryl’s hackles raise. Part of Paul’s merry game of “How much can I piss off Daryl Dixon before I am brutally murdered?” involved responding to Daryl’s promises to beat his ass with a theatrical sigh and “Ooh Mr Dixon, ooh!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Daryl grouses, having decided that Paul calling him “Mr Dixon” wasn’t a form of fuckery this time.

“I’ve got a gift for you,” Paul says, slipping inside the little curtained area. He holds up a canvas bag weighted down with something and sets it down on the ugly kitchen chair. Daryl eyes it with suspicion given the nature of Paul’s past “gifts”.

To his surprise when Paul opens the bag it isn’t anything designed to rile Daryl up. It’s books; a whole stack of them.

“In case you want to do anything more than glare at Alex. I think you’ve aged him.”

Daryl scowls at him, which Paul responds to with a sunny smile. Paul has experience dealing with Daryl’s scowls and has yet to be cowed by them. He wasn’t cowed during their first meeting when Daryl was on his feet with a gun in his face. He sure as shit isn’t cowed now that Daryl is laid up in bed with his leg in a sling.

Paul continues on just as friendly as ever, “I wasn’t sure what you liked to read, so I just made some guesses.”

“Thanks,” Daryl says begrudgingly.

“I have to go check in with Maggie, but I’ll be back later today or tomorrow. Let me know if any of those books tickle your fancy, and I’ll bring more of the same.”

Daryl does this after Paul leaves, flipping through the stack, although in truth it doesn’t matter. He’s never been much of a reader but being trapped in this bed is a big motive to change that. He’ll read anything right now.

 _Well, not anything_ , he thinks when he gets to the bottom of the stack. It’s a Christian devotional titled _Falling in Love with Jesus: Abandoning Yourself to the Greatest Romance of Your Life._ Daryl rolls his eyes. He supposes expecting there to be no fuckery from Paul’s direction was a little too optimistic.

****************

The same day of Paul’s visit Carol comes to tell him she’s leaving for the Kingdom.

“Why?” Daryl can hear the hurt in his own voice. Inside his head a voice is protesting no, no, it’s bad enough they’re divided in two and now Carol wants to leave as well.

“Because Ezekiel asked me to come. He lost a lot of people, more than Alexandria or the Hilltop. A lot more. He needs help, almost all his fighters are gone. And they don’t have _anyone_ there who knows anything about medical stuff. I’ve got what Hershel taught me and stuff I learned on my own thanks to Ed. He needs _help_ , and he asked for mine.”

“That crazy motherfucker asked? That’s it?” Daryl asks, taking refuge in anger.

“No, that’s not it. It’s not over; there’s still a group of Saviors out there. Even if we find them and take them out, someone else will come. Someone else always comes. The only way to be sure we always win is to stand together, all four communities. We all need to be strong for that.”

Carol stares off into the distance for a while then says, “And yes, because he fucking asked me to come. He saved my life.”

Daryl wants to protest, wants to tell her she doesn’t owe Ezekiel any damn thing. A memory comes to him then of a meeting at a Kingdom. He was walking with Carol and Ezekiel came up with a single wildflower in one hand. He tucked it behind Carol’s ear then gave a theatrical bow. The look on her face was one Daryl had never seen there before.

“Alright then,” he says, voice thick. “When are you leaving?”

“Two days from now.”

Two days and she’ll be gone and Daryl doesn’t know what he’s going to do then.

“You’ll be ok,” Carol says, as if she’s read those thoughts.

“Think so?” 

“Yeah, I think so.”

*********************** 

Daryl is still staring at the ceiling brooding over Carol’s planned departure (abandonment, some childish part of his mind whispers)the following day. A few hours into this Paul keeps his promise and returns to ask what Daryl thinks of the books he left. His presence does little to improve Daryl’s mood, he can’t deal with fuckery at this moment.

“Haven’t had much of a chance to look at ‘em,” Daryl says, hoping Paul will take the hint and leave.

“You can tell me when I get back, then. I’m taking Carol to the Kingdom,” Paul says casually. “I have some things to discuss with Ezekiel.”

“Mmhmm,” Daryl grunts.

“I’m going to Alexandria after. Anything you want from there? Any messages you want to give?”

“No,” Daryl says shortly. He didn’t ask for anyone’s pity, and Paul Rovia can fuck off.

Paul Rovia does not fuck off. He stays in his seat studying Daryl while Daryl ignores him.

After a few moments Daryl is startled into paying attention at the distinctive sound of cards slapping together. When he looks over he sees that Paul has produced a battered pack of Bicycle playing cards and is shuffling them against his thigh. Paul does this the way he does everything else, elegant and with skill. Daryl watches as he bends the cards and they leap up into his hands. His fingers are long and tapered, and his nails are clean and trim.

“Do you play gin?” Paul asks.

“No,” Daryl lies, pointedly looking away. He can hear the snap of the cards as they are slapped down, and the whisper when Paul folds them into his hands. Time passes and those cards are as shuffled as they’re ever going to be and Daryl continues to ignore him.

This does not have the desired effect of Paul taking the hint and leaving him the hell alone. Instead Paul leans down and grabs the bed tray that is used to hold Daryl’s meals, balances it on his lap, and deals himself out a hand of Solitaire. Daryl watches for a bit, Paul’s fingers dancing over the cards as he flips them over and matches them up.

He plays several hands of solitaire before gathering up his cards and giving a full body stretch, one cat-like arch that begins at his toes and ends at the tips of those elegant fingers. He makes his goodbyes, and Daryl can’t even get satisfaction that he wore him down. Daryl has the distinct impression that Paul would have left at that exact moment even if Daryl _had_ taken him up on his offer for a hand of gin.

************

Carol comes to say goodbye the following day. Sits on the edge of his bed and takes his hand and says, “Look, you can’t shut down, ok? Glenn’s going to need help. Maggie can’t give it to him, not yet. She’s still not over the baby. Neither of them are." 

“Don’t see what I can do,” Daryl grumbles.

“You’ll figure it out,” Carol says. Then she lifts his hand up to press her face against his knuckles. The gesture makes him draw in a sharp breath. His eyes are hot and he doesn’t know if he can hold back the tears.

“You be careful,” he gets out.

“I will. Get better, ok? When things are…well, not _settled_ , but when they’re less messed up you can come see me.”

“Alright,” he says. They sit in silence for a long time after that, until she tells him it’s time for her to leave; Jesus is probably waiting for her. She bends down and presses a kiss to his forehead. A few tears are able to escape his eyes despite his best efforts.

Then she’s gone.

*************

Daryl is standing on his crutches at the foot of the grand staircase glaring up at the top as if he could will himself up there by force of annoyance alone. Carol has been gone only a few hours, Maggie and Tara are busy, and there’s only one other person at the Hilltop he feels like talking to.

 _You’ll figure something out_ , Carol had said. Daryl hasn’t figured anything out really. He remembers the march to Alexandria, running low on food and water and so miserable about Beth and Tyrese he didn’t much care what happened to him next. Glenn tried to get him to drink something, said that they could make it but they could only make it _together_. This world had hardened all of them in various degrees, but Glenn retained his essential inner goodness underneath it all.

 _What would Glenn do_ , Daryl thinks, _if things were the other way around_? He’d come see Daryl, remind Daryl that he wasn’t alone. That because of that he could still make it.

So fuck these stairs. He promises to bully out twice as much oxycontin as normal from Alex later. He steels himself, tucks both crutches under his left arm, grabs the stair rail with his right, and starts up.

It takes him a long time; he has to rest every few steps. His cast isn’t really made for walking, it’s heavy as fuck and he’s weak and trembling midway up, a fine sheen of sweat soaking into his clothes. His leg hurts, his left shoulder hurts, the bullet wound may be mostly healed but using his crutches under normal circumstances still hurts like a bastard. He’s come too far to turn back though. He grits his teeth and keeps going.

There’s a chair in the hallway at the top of the stairs thank God, and Daryl collapses into it. He stays for a long time, feeling a little stupid. What does he think he can say to Glenn that Maggie hasn’t already? Daryl closes his eyes and leans back in the chair.

He contemplates the question for a few minutes longer, and then goes in search of Glenn.

*************

Daryl finds Glenn in Gregory’s old room, just like Maggie had said. He’s sat in a chair by the window, staring vacantly at nothing. He turns in Daryl’s direction when he clomps in on his crutches.

“Who’s there?” Glenn says, voice sounding dull and lifeless.

If Maggie looked like shit then Glenn looks like five pounds of shit. Every bone on his face is sharply defined, his skin is an unpleasant sallow color, and his hair is limp and greasy. He looks like he hasn’t washed in a while, there are whiteheads clustered on his cheeks and forehead.

“Were you ever planning on visiting, asshole?” Daryl grumbles.

“Daryl?” Glenn says, with just a trace more life in his voice.

“So you do remember me. Was startin’ to wonder,” says Daryl. There’s a chair opposite of Glenn and he gingerly lowers himself into it. Glenn looks even worse up close; his eyes are gruesome, the whites filled with blood.

“I came earlier. You were asleep,” Glenn responds, that dull note creeping back into his voice.

“I’ve been awake for a while now. You been too busy or somethin’?”

Glenn just sighs. Daryl tries to think of something to say, something to make Glenn come back to life. He can’t.

They sit there in silence, and then Glenn says, “Maggie said you broke your leg. How’d you get up the stairs?”

“Wasn’t easy,” Daryl admits, “Next time you should come visit me.”

Glenn just hunches over and says nothing. Daryl tries to draw him into conversation, but Glenn only answers in monosyllable, voice still listless.

“You can’t stay up here forever, Maggie said you wouldn’t leave,” Daryl says finally.

“Can you blame me?”

“You ain’t dead yet.”

Glenn grimaces. “Unfortunately. Sometimes I think about finding one of those guns and putting us out of our misery.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Daryl says.

Glenn’s face twists, “Why not? What happens when someone comes who can actually tear this place down? What happens when we have to run again? Do you think I’ll be able to, like this? If it were just me, if I just had to worry about myself…but Maggie. If shit goes south then I…I can’t protect her. I’m useless. Worse than useless, I’m a burden.”

Daryl realizes there’s absolutely nothing he can say to Glenn in this state to make him want to live. So he doesn’t try. “Yeah. Well your legs still work. Help me get down those stairs; I nearly had a heart attack getting up here.”

Glenn flinches. “I’ll call for someone.”

“Why? You can’t even walk down the steps? Maybe you were right about bein’ useless.”

Glenn looks angry, and Daryl couldn’t be happier. Pissed off is better than apathetic.

“If I miss a step, you’ll fall on your ass. It’s not—” he presses his lips together, “I can’t help you.”

“The hell you can’t,” Daryl says. He reaches out with his crutch and pokes Glenn’s leg. “Get the fuck up, I’m tired, and it’s time for my oxy.” Poke. Poke.

“Daryl, I’m serious,” Glenn says, trying to pull away from Daryl’s prodding crutch.

“Bullshit. Your legs still work; you can help me get down the steps. And your brains still work. Every time I see Maggie she’s wore out, she needs help organizing this place. You ain’t useless, you could never be.”

Glenn’s breathing hard and trembling a little. “I can’t…I can’t help her organize this place, I can’t even see what’s going on, I’ll need someone to tell me in detail.”

“My eyes work just fine, and if I stay in that damned bed another hour without something to do I’ll lose my mind.”

“And then what? When you’re better and can actually do something more useful than be my seeing-eye dog?”

“We’ll worry about that then. Get your shit together, Glenn. At least enough to get me down the steps.”

*************

The trip down the steps is actually harder than the trip up, even with Glenn to lean against. His leg fucking _hurts_ , his breath comes out in shallow little gasps, and he feels like he’ll be sick. It’s worth it though; even if he’s blind Glenn can tell he’s in bad shape. So instead of abandoning Daryl at the foot of the stairs he helps Daryl back into the infirmary.

Alex is there, and he rushes over as soon as he sees Daryl, after the briefest pause at the sight of Glenn. He scolds Daryl for trying to take the stairs too soon, telling him he can cause himself permanent damage.

Glenn looks guilty as hell, and Daryl feels a little flash of triumph.

“Are you ok now, Daryl? I was going to go back upstairs…”

“Do you need help?” Alex asks. “I have to give Daryl his medicine first, but—”

“No,” Glenn says, and then repeats it. Visibly steeling himself, Glenn starts to make his way back to the door, one hand outstretched to keep from bumping into things.

 “I’ll come by tomorrow for a visit,” Daryl calls after him, “Unless you want to stop being a pussy and come down yourself.” Glenn freezes before continuing on his way without a reply. Daryl can hear his footsteps for a while after, they’re slow and hesitant.

 _Maybe day after tomorrow_ , Daryl thinks with gritted teeth. His leg is throbbing, and his shoulder feels like little critters with sharp teeth are chewing their way out.

Daryl mentally takes back every bad thing he’s ever thought about Alex when the other man gives him an extra oxy tablet without being asked. “Thanks,” Daryl grumbles. He doesn’t even get mad when Alex starts nagging him again about going up the stairs.

By the end of the lecture Daryl is drifting off into a pleasant opiate buzz. _Yeah_ , he thinks. _Day after tomorrow_. Maggie might be overwhelmed with getting the Hilltop into shape and her own grief but Daryl has all the time in the goddamned world. The hell if Glenn is going to stay up in a room by himself waiting to die.

********************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments! I've got most of the rest of this mapped out, so I'm hoping to update on a regular schedule.
> 
> Also Alex looks a looks like Tom Hopper in case anyone was wondering.  
> http://tinypic.com/r/2612t1y/9


	3. Now

Daryl wakes up in the attic of the Grimes’ house feeling disoriented and ill-rested, confused at the silence. It takes a few minutes to remember where he is, and why.

He doesn’t leave the house until it’s late enough that he’s positive Tara has gone back to Hilltop. He knows he’s being a chickenshit but he doesn’t care. 

The first place he goes to is Eric and Aaron's house. Eric answers the door, a smile lighting up his face.

“Daryl! I heard a rumor you were back. For good?”

Daryl nods, “Aaron here?” 

Eric isn’t put off by Daryl’s rudeness, “No, he’s at Oceanside, I don’t expect him back for a few days.” His smile fades as he studies Daryl, “Are you all right? Anything I can do?”

Daryl isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not. He has no idea what he planned on saying to Aaron, if anything, but he definitely isn’t going to spill his guts to Eric. Daryl likes him well enough but he doesn’t really _know_ him like he knows Aaron.

“Nah. I’m fine. Just wanted to say hello." 

Eric still looks concerned, but doesn’t press him. They shoot the shit for a while before Daryl takes his leave.

He spends most of the rest of his first full day back slinking around Alexandria and making more notes of the changes.  

His second night at Alexandria passes much like his first, with only a few variations on which memories leave him unable to sleep.

The next day to his relief Rick puts him to work bright and early. Well, early at least, the sky is still grey and the sun is only just starting to rise. His first job is lookout duty, relieving Sasha from her post on the gates. She clambers down the ladder and gives him a tired smile. Rosita is in position on the ground in front of the gate, and when Daryl climbs to the top and looks down he sees that Sasha hasn’t left. She doesn’t leave until Rosita’s own replacement-- Father Gabriel—comes. Then the two women head off together.

Daryl watches them go—he’s only been back a few days but he doesn’t think he’s seen Sasha or Rosita without the other. Daryl hadn’t seen that friendship coming, although maybe he should have. Abe had meant a lot to both of them, who else here could really understand how the other felt? 

He turns his attention away from the two women and towards the sprawling countryside surrounding Alexandria. He wishes Rick had given him something more physical to do. Standing up here with his eyes scanning the horizon and he has nothing to occupy him but his thoughts.

He tries to avoid thinking of how he left things at Hilltop and the only alternatives are just as bad. He thinks of Negan, sitting there in a jail cell at Rick’s insistence. Apparently Negan had been injured in the fight, and Rick had insisted that Doc Carson treat Negan first, make sure he lived. To show that they’re better. 

Paul told him once that the real reason was so that Negan was on display like an animal in the zoo. That it was the ultimate form of disrespect, to show they had no fear of him.

Daryl doesn’t know about that. Negan’s a rabid dog and should have been put down like one and they can be done with it. But like he'd said to Carl it didn't matter what he thought about the situation. 

It is a long day, the sun crawling slowly up the sky. He tries to let his mind go blank, that empty zen space he used to go to when waiting for a deer or rabbit to wander within the range of his crossbow. It’s a useless exercise right now, but damn if he won’t quit trying.

The sun has passed directly above him and is just starting to creep back down toward the western horizon. His shift is almost up, and damnit tomorrow he will beg Rick for something physical. Go out on a run, go hunting, even go play fucking scoutmaster, just something where he’s too busy to think. He stares out at the horizon, and almost misses the glint of sunlight on glass and metal. Car coming from the distance, there are no planned runs that he’s aware. He raises his binoculars to his eyes and his heart starts to pound. It’s the same Land Rover Tara left with yesterday morning, speeding up the main road towards Alexandria.

A cold wave of dread hits him. Something is wrong, there’s no reason for Tara to come back so soon; they have a good bit of diesel stockpiled but it’s not inexhaustible. Runs were only for necessary trips and there is a _schedule_ for that type of thing.

The Rover is at the gates in minutes, and Daryl is already on his way down the ladder. Father Gabriel is opening the gate to let them in when he gets to the ground, and Daryl goes to help him slide the gate closed.

The Rover parks and Daryl leaves the gate and heads towards the driver’s side. When the door opens Daryl’s sense that there is something wrong becomes horrifying certainty. Because it’s not Tara that climbs out, it’s Maggie Greene, with thunder on her face.

She hasn’t come alone, she’s brought what Paul has taken to calling her “honor guard” with her. Dante, Marco, Kal, and Bryan are some of the best fighters from Hilltop and whenever Maggie has doings outside the walls at least one of them will accompany her. That's not a common occurrence, Maggie rarely leaves Hilltop. She sends people to do her bidding these days.

When she sees Daryl her face gets even darker. The last time she looked at Daryl like this was when she found out what he and Tara had been getting up to with Glenn. She sucks in a breath, visibly holding her temper together, and doesn’t even say hello to him before asking, “Is Jesus here?”

 Daryl gapes at her. Of all the things he would have expected her to say that was on the absolute bottom of the list,“What?”

“Is. Jesus. Here?” Maggie repeats. There are spots of color in her cheeks.

“No, why would—" 

“He left less than an hour after you and Tara did. Tore out on Glue Boy, said he was going to Alexandria. Tara said she didn’t see him before she left or on the road back.”

Daryl stares at her, trying to make sense of these words. “What the fuck? Did he say why-”

“I didn’t talk to him, he just left. Kal was on duty, said Jesus didn’t even send me a message. I guess that’s the brand new trend. Can’t say as I’m a fan,” her voice is clipped and harsh. Dante and Kal are giving him hostile looks; they’re both friends with Paul. 

“Did you two have a fight or something?” Dante asks. 

“No. Nothing like that.”

The look Maggie gives him that says she can see through his bullshit and is unimpressed.“It doesn’t matter, I guess, not right now.” She turns to stare hard at the gate, as if she can conjure up Paul if she waits long enough. “We need to find him. If he’s not here by now something’s happened to him.”

There’s forty miles or so between Alexandria and the Hilltop. Glue Boy is dumb as a post but he’s strong and tireless and Paul rides him on his Alexandria-Kingdom-Sanctuary route all the damned time. If Paul left over two days ago he should have arrived by now. Even if something had happened to the horse Paul would have been able to make it on foot, or at the very least would have flagged down Tara or Maggie on the way.

Daryl tries to swallow his growing dread. He tries to remind himself that Paul slips in and out of places all the time; it’s a damn game to him. “He could…he could be doing something else on his way, could have found something to scavenge—”

“We had plans; he was going to do something important for me. He wouldn’t just wander off for _days._ Not now, not without telling me.”

“He seemed pretty pissed off when he left,” Kal chimes in, because Daryl isn’t feeling enough like a piece of shit. _Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck_ , Daryl thinks. He feels like he’s going to be sick. Daryl thinks of the forty miles between here and Hilltop, how many places there were where something could have happened. He looks at the sky; guesses it’s close to two in the afternoon or thereabouts. They have maybe six hours of daylight left to scour those forty miles.

“We should talk to Rick,” Daryl says, lips feeling numb.

****************

At the meeting house Rick’s desk is covered in maps, and he, Maggie, and Michonne are bent over them, talking in low, urgent voices.

Daryl’s not listening. The numb dread he’d felt earlier has worn off and now he’s pacing back and forth, ready explode with impatience. Everything is screaming at him to go now, on foot if he has to, and search every inch of road from here to Hilltop. A single thought keeps circling through his head: _My fault, my fault, this is my fault._

“Daryl, come here,” Rick says, snapping him out of it, “Where did you say you guys got stuck in the mud?”

Daryl looks at the map without seeing, his mind blank suddenly. It’s just a mess of lines.

“Daryl?” Rick asks.

 _Get your shit together, Darylina. Think_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like Merle says in the back of his mind.

“Here,” he says, tapping on the map. Rick puts a little X there. 

“How long were you stuck?” Rick is using his Cop Voice.

“Maybe three hours or so…” Daryl trails off, realizing where Rick is going with this.

The road between the two communities isn’t a straight line. When you left Hilltop you had to arc north a good ways before cutting south. The most _direct_ route would be to head due east across country from Hilltop _then_ cut south. This was the quickest and shortest route. It was not, however, the safest. The areas to the north had been mostly evacuated at the beginning of the outbreak; they had fewer walkers and roads clogged with abandoned cars.

Paul normally took the safer route on his runs; it just wasn’t worth the risk. But if he were in a hurry? If, for example, he was trying to catch up with someone who had just left by car not an hour earlier? If he was mad as hell and not thinking straight?

Daryl tries to do the math; it’s like one of those hellish word problems in his junior high math classes. How fast could Glue Boy go, at a good trot, if his rider were pissed off and rushing him along? Eight miles an hour? Ten? Maggie said Paul left less than an hour after Daryl did… 

“He would have caught up with us,” Daryl says slowly, “If he cut across country and nothing stopped him, he would have caught up with us.”

Rick nods, then draws a circle around the area between Hilltop and the little X that marked the mudslide.

“That’s too many ifs for me,” Maggie says, staring at the map.

“Maybe,” Rick says, “But it narrows the search area down to something manageable.”

There’s more talk, but Daryl isn’t listening. He’s staring at that circle Rick drew, pulse thudding in his temples. He knows in his bones that whatever happened to Paul happened somewhere in that circle, that if he’s still alive that’s the place to start looking for him.

“I don’t like this, something isn’t right,” Michonne says suddenly. “Jesus can take care of himself; he’s gone this route before when he’s had to.”

“Just takes one mistake, one second.” Rick says.

Daryl feels like he’s swallowed acid. He can all too easily imagine scenarios that result in Paul’s death. Glue Boy could have thrown a shoe, spilling Paul off and cracking open his skull. The idiot could have decided to charge a horde instead of going around. That’s a fate Daryl can see in lurid detail. Paul with one of his knives lashing out at the horde. Glue boy rearing as dead hands grab at him. Paul tilting back, trying to control the panicked horse but he’s grabbed as well, dozens of dead hands pulling him down. They slam him into the ground, fingers and teeth digging in and Paul screams, and screams, and screams as he’s torn to pieces.

“What the hell difference does it make,” Daryl snaps, “We need to find him and this is best place to look.”

“It matters because it might not have been a mistake, or an accident,” Michonne answers, “We have enemies already. If I were to guess what could have taken _Jesus_ out I would say other people over the dead. They’re far more dangerous. Also, what else is close to this area?”

Daryl feels his blood run cold, because just south of that circle on the map is the Sanctuary.  Negan is in prison, his followers claim to have turned against him, they’re trading partners now, zippity-do-fucking-dah. Anyone who hadn’t turned had been killed or driven off. 

But if the ones who had gone rogue and taken off after the fighting had decided to come back then the Sanctuary would be their first target. Daryl's not naive enough to believe that some of those crazy fucks at the Sanctuary weren't sympathetic or secretly longing for the return of Negan. That if the rogue Saviors had come back they knew this particular area better than anyone else, Ogden had been Negan's right hand man and would know if there were any secret hiding places, weapons caches, or who the fuck knew what.

“Come on,” Dante says, startling Daryl. He’d forgotten Maggie’s Honor Guard was in the room, “I mean, we haven’t seen Ogden or any of his people in six months, we looked all over. They’re gone.”

Michonne, Rick, Daryl, and Maggie all stare at each other. Daryl knows all four of them are thinking of the same thing. Michonne and Hershel going out to bury the dead. The Governor showing up with a damn army after _months_. The sword striking Hershel’s neck, the first blow hadn’t taken off his head; the Governor had to keep swinging while Hershel crawled along the ground. The images are burned into Daryl’s memory along Maggie and Beth screaming and gunfire. 

 _That trail went cold, you know that right?_ Daryl had said to Michonne only days before the attack on the prison.

“Ring the bells, get everyone here,” Rick says. “We need to get ready.” 

Daryl feels like he’s losing his mind, “What? We ain’t got time for a meeting, he’s out there—”

“Michonne’s right. This isn’t just a search, it could be a fight. And you know it,” Rick says.

“That’s bullshit,” Daryl snarls. He’s aware that everyone in the room is staring at him. He doesn’t give a fuck. If anything the idea that there is the smallest possibility the rogue Saviors could have Paul has increased his urgency.

_Mommy or hardcase, kid. Pick one, Ogden with his ugly grin, a length of cable wrapped around his fist._

_C_ _arl, Michonne said, voice calm, He’s still hurt. It could kill him._

He shoves that memory away violently. Refuses to look at Michonne, or the scar on her cheek. Focuses on Rick, who says, “Maybe. But we don’t take chances. Not anymore.”

“Hell with that, I’ll go myself, you can catch up-” Daryl says as he starts for the door, mind going over the logistics of a search. 

“The last time you did that it didn’t turn out so well,” Rick says, and Daryl stops as suddenly as if he’s run into an invisible wall.

He slowly turns around and for the first time in years Daryl is angry enough at Rick that he thinks he’s going to punch him. Rick doesn’t look angry or upset, just walks right up to Daryl so he can lean in and talk to him quietly. “Look, I get it. And I owe him, more than I can ever repay. You know I do. If he’s out there we’ll find him, but we need to be smart about it.” He has on his soft big-brother face, the one that drives Daryl insane sometimes. He has a few years on Rick, but still feels like a kid in comparison.

Daryl’s anger leaves him all at once. In place is just a hollow sickness.

Daryl swallows hard, and then gives a jerky nod. “Ok,” he whispers, then louder, “Ok.” He looks around at the faces staring him, “Just be quick.”

“We will.”

****************

Waiting for Rick to call a meeting together is one of the hardest things Daryl has had to do in a life full of hard things. He wishes he had a watch, something to let him know how much time has passed. It feels like hours.

The Alexandrians that file into the church are different than the ones that filed in last summer to hear about the Saviors for the first one. This group is harder, has been tested and come out the other side stronger. There’s no fear or uncertainty on their faces, just grim readiness.

Rick is good to his word; he doesn’t waste time once the meeting has called to order. He’s brief, just the facts, no speechifying or anything. He’s going to lead a group out to look for Jesus. It’s going to be a big enough party that if the rogue Saviors or anyone else is back they’ll be able to fight. Meanwhile he’s sending runners to the Kingdom and to Hilltop, let the people there know to be on alert.

“With any luck it’s nothing, and Jesus is holed up somewhere and can’t leave," Or he's dead, Daryl thinks, but he can't go there now, if he does he'll never be able to think clearly enough to start the search, "If that’s true we’ll find him and bring him back. But for now we’re playing it safe. Everyone needs to be on alert.”

************** 

The search party splits into three groups to cover more ground. Maggie and her honor guard take the Rover; Rosita, Sasha, Heath, and a guy called Siddiq that Daryl hasn’t met before take a battered Volkswagen.

“You’re not coming with us,” Rick says when Carl approaches the third car, where Michonne and Daryl are already waiting.

Carl is not happy about that. The kid has that scary look on his face, the one he wore for a long time after the Sanctuary, “I can handle myself, you know I can, if this _does_ turn out to be a fight you’ll need all the help you can get—”

“It’s not about not being to handle yourself, I know you can. But I need you here to look after the place.”

“Bullshit, we’ve got people now who can be trusted; if anyone has a right to take out Ogden then it’s me—”

“This is a search party first,” Michonne interrupts, “A fight isn’t likely, this is just being cautious.”

That’s not good enough for Carl, and Rick has to take him aside to have a low, urgent conversation with him. Whatever he says works because the kid gives a stiff nod and backs off although he still looks murderous. Daryl thinks he’s never looked more like Rick than he does in that moment.

Michonne gives Carl a tight hug, whispers something in his ear. His face relaxes just a little. 

Rick and Michonne get into the front of the car and Daryl heads to the back. “Daryl,” Carl says, stopping him short. The kid glances to where his father and Michonne are sat and leans in close to Daryl, lowering his voice, “If you see Ogden, don’t let Dad take him as a prisoner. Bash his fucking head in. I told him I was going to do it, don’t make me a liar, ok?”

“Done,” Daryl says. It was done before Carl requested it. What Ogden had done to Michonne was enough to earn him a messy death at Daryl’s hands. If that fucker is out there and if he’s hurt Paul it’s going to be an even messier death. This time Daryl won’t be too comatose to see to it. Carl looks satisfied, and extends his hand for Daryl to shake. 

Carl steps back after Daryl climbs into the car. He raises a hand, which all three of them return. Then they head out, the other two groups falling in behind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I'm as faithful the real world geography of Northern Virginia as the show is, which is to say not at all. Apologies if anyone reading this story is familiar with the area and this inconsistency drives you nuts. 
> 
> Again, thanks for the comments and kudos! Hoping to get Chapter 4 up by this weekend.


	4. Then

Daryl is stretched out on his back reading when Paul Rovia pulls back his curtains and tosses a letter onto Daryl’s chest without preamble. It startles him, until that moment he hadn’t known the other man was back from his run to the Kingdom and Alexandria.

“From Rick and Michonne,” Paul explains, “They were overjoyed to hear that you are awake and on your road to recovery.”

Daryl opens the letter and glances at it. He can’t get past the opening sentence: _Dear Daryl, I’m sorry we left, it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do._

Daryl swallows hard, “I’ll read it later,” he says. He folds the letter closed and places it on bed stand. He’d visited Glenn earlier and his emotions have been worked over enough for one day. Daryl had tried to convince him that he could still help Maggie build something in this place. Glenn had shut him down by reminding Daryl that the baby had been trying to build something. “How’s Carol?”

Paul thinks for a moment then says, “Ezekiel held a feast to celebrate her coming. After we started eating he got up and gave a toast, then had some of the kids from the Kingdom come out and present her with gifts they made as a thank you for her help. Apparently there’s still a large amount of crafting supplies at the school,” Paul pauses. There’s a faint hint of a smile, “I don’t know her like you do, but she seemed happy.”

Daryl’s chest goes tight. It turns out that waiting to read Rick and Michonne’s letter hasn’t spared him another emotional pummeling. It’s an odd tangle that he feels. He’s glad Carol’s found some happiness but upset she couldn’t find it someplace closer to him. A selfish part of him had wanted to believe her move to the Kingdom was temporary but he knows that it isn’t. Just like Maggie, Glenn, and Tara being at the Hilltop isn’t. Aside from missing his family Daryl feels edgy and uncertain; he has no idea where he belongs anymore. He’s at Hilltop because of his own injuries and because Glenn needs all the help he can get right now. He doesn’t know what he should do when they both get better—go back to Alexandria? Stay here? Go to the Kingdom to be with Carol?

“She also sent a gift for you,” Paul says, and digs out a pack of Camel Lights from his jacket pocket, “You’ll have to smoke these outside. Not to be a dick, but there’s an oxygen tank under your bed. Besides it would be good for you to get out. Blow the stink off, as my Mom used to say.”

Daryl glowers at him. He doesn’t want to go outside; he doesn’t want to leave this bed. Aside from his mess of emotions his leg and his shoulder fucking _hurt_ as a result of tackling the stairs earlier. He’s not in the mood to deal with Paul Rovia.

Paul doesn’t take the hint; he just settles into the chair and stretches out in that catlike arch of his. After that he relaxes and his body language says that he is content to sit in that chair forever.

The cigarettes in Paul’s hand are practically glowing, and Daryl’s eye keeps being drawn to them. His wheelchair is on the other side of the bed from Paul.

“You going to help me into that thing,” he gestures to the chair, “Or what?”

****************

“I’ll be right back,” Paul says, after wheeling Daryl out on the portico. Daryl doesn’t care when Paul returns, he’s too busy lighting up. The cigarette is stale and disgusting and the first drag burns a little. It’s the best thing that’s happened to him since he woke.

After he’s indulged in several deep puffs he turns his attention to the Hilltop. The whole place is bustling with energy. People scurry to and fro like ants, a few stopping to stare at him. Daryl slouches in his chair and glares to discourage any from speaking to him.

Paul returns with the ugly kitchen chair and Daryl’s meal tray. He produces his deck of cards again, lifting his eyebrows at Daryl. After a moment Daryl grunts an affirmative noise. Paul looks smug, and Daryl wants to hit him.

“What did you think of the books I left? I saw you reading one when I came in. _White Fang,_ right? Are you enjoying it?” Paul says after they’ve played their first hand in silence.

Daryl will never give the little fucker the satisfaction of admitting it, but if he hadn’t had Paul’s books to occupy his mind over the past few days he probably would have killed someone. “Mmm-hmm,” In fact it was his favorite so far. He found he had a hard time reading stories about people. One of the characters would go to the fucking grocery store or something and take Daryl right out of it. How difficult could any of these people’s lives _be_ if they could go into a store and buy whatever food they wanted? If they didn’t have to worry about the dead eating them alive? If every single person they knew for the first part of their life wasn’t fucking dead? The main character of _White Fang_ was a wolf and the plot consisted of animals killing and eating each other. He found it far more relatable.

Paul grins at some private amusement, “I had a feeling you’d like that one. I can bring you some more like it.”

“Sure,” Daryl says, and that’s the extent of their conversation for the next few hours. They play cards while Daryl smokes and enjoys the sunshine. Every now and again when Daryl looks up from his cards he’ll catch Paul’s studying him, his eyes inscrutable.

When Paul leaves this time Daryl is surprised to feel sad to see him go.

*************

“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me,” Daryl says when Paul shows up for a third day in a row.

“I don’t feel sorry for you. What I do feel fear of your friend Carol, she told me to look after you. Woman is terrifying.”

That surprises a snort of laughter out of Daryl.

“What? You don’t believe me?” Paul asks, eyes wide and innocent.

“I think you’re full of shit,” Daryl says. He knows what Carol can do. He also knows what Paul can do. He thinks the two of them are actually a well-matched set. Paul can vanish into his calm “Jesus” persona as easily as Carol can vanish into her dotty housewife one. Both are fucking fake as hell. Daryl learned exactly what Paul was capable of during the war. He _sensed_ it before then, he thinks. During their very first meeting. Wasn’t fooled for a second by those wide eyes. Paul had said that he thought Daryl and Rick looked like trouble when he first met them? Shit, they had nothing on him.

“You underestimate your friend. Besides, I’ve been there. The busted up leg, I mean. I know it’s not easy and that was before, you know? How’s the itching?”

“Fine, ‘fore you mentioned it,” Daryl grouses. There are times he thinks that he will literally go insane if he can’t just _scratch._ Times when he thinks it would be worth it to grab a hammer and whack the cast into pieces and just dig his nails in until he’s bleeding.

“When I broke mine I cut apart a wire hanger and used that to slide in and scratch. There has to be one around here.”

“I think Alex would confiscate it,” Daryl says. He’s back to hating his nurse. The big guy is too friendly and cheerful in the face of Daryl’s darker moods. _Offensively_ so.

“Fair point,” Paul says, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well, I’ll bring some more books at least. Might help you keep your mind off of things.” He takes out his deck of cards and starts shuffling. “Do you want to play some more gin, or something else?”

*************

Daryl is a third of the way up the grand staircase when he hears Glenn’s voice calling his name. Daryl looks up and sees him at the top of the stairs with one hand on the banister and the other holding a walking stick.

“I thought I told you to stop coming, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“And I told you I was going to do it until you stopped being a pussy.”

“Well, I _was_ on my way down. Maybe if you waited five minutes before deciding to tear up your shoulder some more,” Glen says, and starts descending the steps, tapping the walking stick ahead of him.

As he approaches Daryl sees that something is changed in him. He doesn’t look like his old self, not by a longshot, but he looks freshly washed and his hair is combed. It’s something, and the fact that he is actually on his way to see Daryl is something even bigger.

“Don’t look so smug,” Glenn mutters as he sidles up to Daryl and lets the other man lean against his shoulder.

“Don’t know what you mean. How would you know, anyways?”

“I can hear the smug on your face,” Glenn answers.

They reach the bottom of the staircase and Daryl is able to move by himself with the help of his crutches. He heads into the infirmary and Glenn follows, tapping his stick against the ground.

Daryl has the place to himself these days for the most part. Or as much as he can, at any rate. People still come in and out to see Doctor Carson or even Alex if it’s minor enough. Daryl will hide behind his curtains with his nose in a book until the intruders leave. Too many of them try to talk to him.

It’s empty now, at least. Daryl crutches to his bed and sits on the edge, breathing hard. The empty room seems depressing all of the sudden.

“There’s a chair over here if you want to sit,” Daryl says, taking his good leg and using it to lift the front legs of the chair off the ground a few inches before dropping it. It lets out a loud clatter and Glenn cocks his head at the noise then walks over to the chair.. He sits down with a sigh; after a few seconds he says, “This is the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever sat in.”

“Just be glad you don’t have to look at it,” Daryl replies.

Glenn bursts out laughing. It’s disturbing, he sounds almost hysterical.

“Thanks,” Glenn says when he calms down.

“For what?” he asks, eying Glenn warily. He doesn’t know if he should be thanked for making Glenn laugh like that.

“For not tiptoeing around it,” Glenn answers and gestures at his ruined eyes, “The other day Maggie said she was going to ‘look’ at the south wall, and corrected herself. Changed it to ‘examine.’”

“She means well,” Daryl says.

Glenn sighs, all trace of his earlier mirth gone, “I know she does,” he says so quietly Daryl can barely hear him. He bites his lip then says, “Do you want to know what really scares me?” Daryl makes an inquiring noise, and Glenn continues, “That she’ll start resenting me. Resent having to look after me. Or that she’ll stay with me out of guilt or pity.”

“That’s horseshit. Would you resent her, if it was the other way ‘round? If you’re worried she pities you then don’t give her reasons to. You can help her.”

“How?”

“Fuck if I know; you’re the smart guy. Figure it out.”

“So helpful,” Glenn says. He taps his stick against the floor in agitation. “Maybe I should-”

“We can take a look at the place,” Daryl interrupts. He’s worried that the next thing Glenn will say is _go back to my room._ “Get out of this dang house and blow the stink off us.”

“I don’t know—”

“C’mon, the farthest away I’ve gotten is the porch since I woke up. I’m going to go stir crazy and I can’t exactly go by myself, I’ll fall on my ass. You can push me around in my wheelchair.”

Glenn lets out an exasperated sigh and Daryl knows he’s won.

*************

Daryl crutches out onto the portico and turns to look at Glenn. The kid is standing in the doorway gripping the handles of the wheelchair so tight his knuckles are white. Daryl waits and finally Glenn draws in a deep breath and steps through the door. Daryl thinks it may be the bravest thing he’s ever seen the kid do.

There’s another holdup at the steps; Barrington House is not exactly handicap accessible and maneuvering the clunky wheelchair down them when Glenn can’t see takes a while. He manages in the end and Daryl sinks into the chair gratefully.

“You ok?” Glenn asks.

“Fine,” Daryl says, “Let’s roll.”

Glenn starts out walking slowly but seems to gain confidence with every step, trusting Daryl to navigate. They make their way into the heart of the Hilltop. People stop to stare at them both but Daryl’s scowls are enough to keep them away. He’s glad Glenn can’t see people turning and whispering to each other. Although Glenn probably can imagine it just fine.

It’s a gorgeous day; early October and the surrounding trees of Hilltop are the color of fire, all reds and oranges and yellows. He’s reminded of the falls of his youth and the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains all lit up. They do a lap around the grounds. As always Hilltop is bustling with activity. They roll past the group of long tables ringing a massive fire pit; communal meals are cooked and served here. It’s early in the afternoon but a gaggle of cooks is already working on tonight’s meal. At the forge the blacksmith is busy tapping a white-hot lump of metal against an anvil. It’s too early to know what it will be.

“So,” Glenn says after a bit, “What’s going on? And where are we?” He inhales deeply through his nose, “I can smell motor oil.”

“Let’s see, there are a fuckload of people everywhere, doin’ shit. We’re almost to the trailers now.”

“How many of them are there?”

“I just said a ‘fuckload,’” Daryl answers.

“Trailers, not people.”

Daryl counts them as Glenn rolls them along, “Fifteen of ‘em, and there’s another four or five behind the house.”

Glenn makes a thoughtful noise and Daryl continues narrating their journey. In the north corner of the Hilltop is a row of stables and a small paddock for the horses. They have three of them now, gifts from Ezekiel and the Kingdom. Glenn pushes him closer and Daryl sees Maggie leading a dappled grey horse around in circles. On his back is Paul Rovia, clinging to the reins and looking dubious. As Daryl watches Maggie lets go of the reins and Paul scrambles to stay in the saddle. Daryl snorts out a laugh and wishes he had popcorn.

“What?” Glenn asks.

“It’s Maggie,” Daryl says, and Glenn stops.

“What…what’s she’s doing?”

“It looks like she’s giving Paul riding lessons.”

Glenn still hasn’t moved. Daryl twists his neck around to look up at him. He looks completely miserable and murmurs, “Has she seen us?”

“Yes,” Daryl lies, “She’s looking at you.” She’s actually looking at Paul, laughing at his fumbling with the reins. Daryl is right there with her; seeing Paul Rovia being _clumsy_ is too delightful for words.

Behind him Glen sucks in a breath, “How does she look?”

“She’s lookin’ a lot better,” Daryl says. As if on cue Paul spots them from where he’s perched on top of the horse and points them out to Maggie. When she sees Glenn her smile melts off her face and to Daryl she looks like she’s going to start bawling.

Glenn stands there frozen for several long moments. Daryl has no idea if the kid is going to turn and head back to the house or go forward.

“Is there anything in front of us that can trip your chair up?”

“Nothin’ I can see.”

Glenn waits another beat and takes in another deep breath then lets it out slowly. He starts pushing Daryl’s chair forward. As they make their approach Daryl can see that there _are_ tears on Maggie’s face but her smile is starting to reappear with every step Glenn takes towards her.

“Whoa, we’re here,” Daryl says when they’re a few feet from the fence. Glenn doesn’t say anything, just lets go of the chair’s handlebars, steps to the side, puts one shaky hand on Daryl’s shoulder, the other outstretched. He takes one small step, then another. His hand slides down Daryl’s shoulder to Daryl’s own hand. He takes another step, and the fingers of his outstretched hand brush against the fence. He lets go of Daryl so he can examine the fence with that hand as well.

Maggie comes up to him, looking more like herself than Daryl’s seen her since that night in the woods.

“Hey, handsome,” she says. Her voice is trembling but her smile is still strong as she tilts her head up to look at Glenn’s face.

“Hey,” he answers. Glenn’s back is to Daryl but he can hear a smile in that voice. Maggie winds the fingers of one hand in Glenn’s and wipes tears from her face with the other. The two of them stand like that for a long time.

The spell is broken by Paul spitting out, “Fuck!” He’s attempting to dismount and the dappled grey isn’t having it. He tosses his head stamps at the ground, whinnying with indignation. Maggie mutters “Shit!” and races to take the horse’s reins. Once Paul is down and Maggie gives him a once over to be sure he’s all right she walks the horse back over to the fence, Paul trailing them at a wary distance.

“Glenn. Daryl,” Paul says, nodding to them, “What brings the two of you out here?”

“Just getting a feel for the place,” Glenn answers, then jumps a little when the horse leans over the fence to sniff around at his hair. Glenn reaches out a cautious hand to pet it.

“It’s nice to have some horses again,” Maggie agrees, “We always had them growing up. Makes this place feel more like home,” she bites her lip, “Do want to come in and see…meet the other ones?”

“I’d love to take a look,” Glenn says. “Daryl, are you good here for a minute?”

“Longer than that.”

“I’ll be back in a minute and we can finish our lesson,” she says to Paul. It sounds more like a threat than anything else. She turns back to Glenn and says, “The gate’s this way,” Maggie says. Glenn reaches over the fence to put a hand on her shoulder and leads him off. Daryl watches them go. The two of them seem cautious around each other, like a couple on a first date rather than one married for over a year.

The horse decides to stay. He comes right up the fence and peers down. Daryl clicks out the side of his mouth and stretches out a hand. The horse bends down and starts to nibble at his fingers.

“Haven’t got anything for you,” he says. The horse isn’t convinced, he keeps inspecting Daryl’s hands. His nose is soft against Daryl’s palm.

“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Paul says, leaning against the fence. “In better times he’d be sent straight to the glue factory. Alas he is all we have for now.”

“Maybe his rider is just shit,” Daryl says. The horse has decided that Daryl is not hiding a lump of sugar or an apple in his hand and moves on to Daryl’s jacket, nibbling at the collar and blowing air out his nostrils.

“You ought to do that more often,” Paul says.

“What’s that?” Daryl asks, extricating his collar from the horse’s mouth, “Shh, come on now,” he murmurs, stroking the horse’s neck.

“Smile,” Paul answers, “You’ve got a nice one.”

“Don’t start that shit again,” Daryl says, giving the horse a final pat. He snorts again and flicks his ears before heading off.

“No, I say that with no ulterior motives. Well, some ulterior motives. But mostly pure intent. Promise.”

Daryl grumbles and settles back in his chair. His leg aches and he is tired all of the sudden. He looks over at Maggie and Glenn. They’re standing in front of another horse’s stable and Maggie is guiding Glenn’s hands over it. They’re look like they’re having deep conversation at the same time and he’s not about to interrupt them. Daryl sighs and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He can wait.

“How’s your leg?” Paul asks.

“Been better.”

“Did you drag yourself up the stairs again like an idiot to collect Glenn?”

“Fuck you,” Daryl mutters, and then grudgingly, “Only part of the way, he was already on his way down.” When he opens his eyes and looks at Paul the other man has turned toward Glenn and Maggie and has a soft look on his face.

“That’s good to hear,” Paul says, then turns his attention back to Daryl. “Do you want me to take you back? Give them some alone time? I don’t have my deck of cards on me but there’s a chess board laying around somewhere in the house.”

“Don’t play chess.”

“I can show you how.”

Daryl thinks that as soon as he gets back he’s going to hit up some painkillers and will be too busy drooling all over himself to learn to play chess of all things. He still shrugs and says, “Alright.” Paul smiles and it’s a genuine one, not his shit-eating grin that drives Daryl up the wall and makes him homicidal. Daryl almost tells Paul that _he_ ought to do that more often but knows Paul will never let him live it down.

*************

Six weeks after Daryl wakes up Carson says he’s ready for a new cast, one that will only cover his lower leg and will make him far more mobile.

“You’ll probably still want to use the chair,” Carson says. Daryl does not agree, but doesn’t interrupt, “But you’ll be able to move around no trouble and the stairs will be a lot easier. Maybe a month or so of this, then a walking cast.”

It is not the best thing that has happened since he woke up (Carol’s gift of cigarettes still claims that honor) but it’s pretty darn close.

The x-ray machine is still in the medical trailer, so Alex wheels him out. After the machine’s done its thing Carson says he’s healing great. Then Alex is the one to take a little handheld saw thing and start slicing through the top layer of his plaster cast. It’s terrifying, despite the big guy’s assurance that he’s done this a thousand times and it’s perfectly safe. He saws one long line up his outer thigh, then another up his inner thigh. Daryl grips the railing of the bed and feels his balls try to crawl up into his stomach as the little saw inches its way up.

Alex gives him a reassuring smile when he’s done and starts prying the cast apart. The outer layer of plaster comes apart like an oyster shell, revealing an inner layer of cotton bandages that Alex cuts open, and Daryl gets a good look at his leg for the first time. It’s skinny and pale and hairless.

The new cast Carson puts on is about half the size of the old one, covering only the lower leg up to his knee. When Daryl gets up it feels absurdly light.

“Do you want to take the chair back to the infirmary?” Alex asks.

“Hell no.”

Alex follows with the chair anyway as Daryl crutches his way back to Barrington house. On his way back he’s forced to endure people coming up to congratulate him on his new cast, to ask if he needs any help. This is nothing new, it happens all the time when he and Glenn go out for a spin around the grounds.

He blames Paul, to be honest. Paul is friends with everyone in Hilltop it seems and people have transferred that onto Daryl. He is not happy about it. People call him Mr Dixon (seriously, fuck Paul) and pay him _visits_ and one older woman even brought him fucking flowers to put by his bedside. There is only so much solicitation and kindness from strangers Daryl can take, it makes him edgy and twitchy. Alex is nice enough to distract his well-wishers and Daryl can make his escape. By the time he makes it back to his bed in the infirmary his good mood at his new cast has turned sour, and gets even worse when he sees Paul stretched out in the chair by Daryl’s bed, flipping through a book. Daryl makes sure to whack his leg with a crutch as he goes by on his way to the bed.

“The rumors are true, I see,” Paul says as he studies Daryl’s new cast. “You’ll have to let people sign this one, let me be the first. I promise not to write anything too embarrassing.”

“You’ll be eating one of these crutches if you try it,” Daryl growls, and swings his legs up onto the bed and settles against the pillows. He had perhaps overdone it a bit running away from well-meaning Hilltop residents.

“Hurtful, Mr Dixon, hurtful. Do you want to play gin or cribbage?” Paul asks, producing his pack of cards and starting to shuffle them.

Before Daryl can answer Alex comes in, wheeling in the chair. When Paul spots him the cards go flying out of his hand and scatter across the floor, and he spits out an irritated, “Fucking fuck. Um. Hey Alex. Haven’t seen you around when I’ve been here the last couple times.”

Alex is frozen in the doorway, face gone bright red. “Oh. I didn’t…I didn’t know you’d be here. Um,” he looks down and fiddles with the handlebars of the wheelchair. “Daryl, um, I won’t be far, just yell if you need anything, you should be fine though, with the new cast. Good to see you, Paul.” Someone Alex’s size shouldn’t be capable of scurrying, but that’s the only word Daryl can think to describe his retreat. Paul stares after him for a few moments then bends down to gather up his cards from the floor. His cheeks are a little pink when he faces Daryl again and repeats his question of what game Daryl would like to play.

“Gin, because I ain’t a ninety-eight year old grandma. What was _that_ about?” Daryl asks.

Paul focuses on shuffling the cards. His cheeks are still pink and he doesn’t meet Daryl’s eyes, “He and I…we had a thing for a bit.”

“’A thing’?”

“We were fucking,” Paul says bluntly.

“Oh,” Daryl says and his own cheeks start heating up. He already knew Paul was gay but hadn’t guessed it about Alex. Daryl doesnn’t care about Paul’s sexuality but it was an abstract concept to him, something Paul used to fluster Daryl with his outrageous come-ons and flirtation.

Of course Paul notices his blushing when he looks up. He grins a sly grin, “No need for jealousy, Mr Dixon. We called it quits months ago, and of course my heart belongs to you.”

“Eight weeks and my leg will be well enough to plant a foot your ass.” Daryl mutters, annoyance banishing his embarrassment.

“Talk dirty to me, Mr Dixon.”

“I wish I’d’ve left you in that tree,” Daryl grumbles, “Or shot you.”

“You had your chance. Now you’re stuck with me.”

*************

“I’m going for a run in a few days,” Paul says one day over their ritual card game. They’re sat on the portico of the Hilltop. The days are getting chillier but it’s still pleasant outside.

“Mmhmm,” Daryl says. “Long one?” Paul hasn’t gone on one of those in a while, mostly day trips or at the most an overnight at one of the other communities.

“Yeah. It will take three weeks or so at least.”

Daryl blinks, surprised at the wave of disappointment this news generates. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s started looking forward to Paul’s visits.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s a secret,” he says, grinning.

Daryl rolls his eyes. So maybe he won’t miss Paul while he’s gone. He’s about to tell him so when a voice calls out, “Jesus! Hey, Jesus!”

It’s one of the Hilltop folks, one Daryl does not recognize. Older guy with a hairless pink skull and a jutting jaw. He comes right up on the porch, giving Daryl a distracted nod.

Paul gives the intruder a polite smile, “Hank. How can I help you?”

“You’ve got to come and settle this. It’s Jensen again, he keeps insisting that the mill should go on the east ridge, even though the soil there is unstable and the whole thing will fall over in less than a year.”

“Why does he want it there?”

“Says it will catch the wind better. And says he’s we can lay down a floating foundation, but we don’t have the equipment, the mill really should go—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Paul says, “I’ll talk to him. I mean, he’s not putting anything up this second?”

“No, but every day we waste arguing is a day we could be building. Listen Jesus, I know Jensen thinks he’s grand poobah of shit mountain with his fancy engineering degree, but I’ve been a builder for almost thirty years, I know what I’m talking ab—”

Paul sighs, “I said I’ll talk to him. I’ll let him know he needs to consider your input.”

Hank whines at Paul for a bit longer. Every now and again Paul’s eyes meet Daryl’s and they have a glazed, trapped look. He’s still unfailingly polite and calm.

“How much longer this gonna take?” Daryl asks, interrupting Hank’s bleating, “’Cuz we was in the middle of something.”

To his surprise this Hank fella shuts his trap, looks from Daryl to Paul and turns bright red. “Oh. Um. Sorry, I didn’t…I’ll leave you two alone.”

“If I knew it would be that easy to get rid of him I’da said it sooner,” Daryl mutters, then looks at Paul, “What’s so dang funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the other man coughs, a smile still twitching at his lips, “Thanks for that. I was about to lose it; the two of them have been arguing about that for months and I have to listen to both sides. I thought they had it worked out, but…” He sighs.

“I don’t know how you manage it,” Daryl says. People are always coming to Paul for things, he’s the man who sees that it gets done. Back when Gregory was in charge it was the _only_ way for the average person at Hilltop to express concerns with their leader. Maggie is more approachable and encourages people to speak up to her. Glenn is also starting to get requests and concerns; he no longer needs Daryl as an excuse to walk around the Hilltop. But old habits die hard and a lot of people still ask Paul before anyone else.

“Oh I don’t mind for the most part,” Paul says, “I’m glad to help out around here. Be a part of something bigger than myself.”

“You were the college kid holding a protest sign outside a courthouse every weekend, weren’t you?”

Paul laughs, “Actually I never went to college. And I got far more idealistic after the world ended than I ever was before,” he stares meditatively into the distance, “Strange how that worked out.”

“Better you than me. I’m going to shoot someone before too long,” Daryl grumbles, “There’s too many damn people here.”

Truth be told he hates the big house, more than he hated the ones in Alexandria. It’s too big and too fancy and there are too many people. At least at the house he shared with the Grimes family he had his own space in the attic to retreat to.

He seriously entertains the idea of trying to make the trip to Alexandria. It’s something he hasn’t considered since he woke up. Main reason was that the roads were fucked, and had been since the war. Cleaning them up was a major project taken on by all four communities. It was still slow going; the numbers of the dead in the area had swelled a staggering degree. First they had been drawn deliberately by the alliance led by Rick, to attack the Sanctuary and keep it under siege. More had come, drawn to the noise of explosions and gunfire. Plus no trace of the rogue Saviors has been found yet and Daryl does not trust that they're gone for good. The long and short of it is that travel between Hilltop and Alexandria is slow and dangerous as hell. Until Daryl can run and fight he is does not want to risk it.

Paul is quiet for a few minutes, studying his cards, then, “You can stay at my place while I’m gone, if you’d like somewhere to get away.”

“Your place?” Daryl asks. It occurs to him that he’s never bothered to find out where Paul stays when he’s not on runs or dealing with the complaints of Hilltop residents or annoying Daryl. He had assumed that Paul stayed in one of the rooms in the mansion, close enough to be on hand whenever Gregory needed help for anything more complicated than holding his dick or wiping his ass.

“I live in one of the trailers in the south lawn. You’d have the whole thing to yourself. I’ve got nothing in it but books.”

“You have a whole trailer to yourself?” Daryl asks, incredulous. Most of them are packed with entire families.

“I used to share it with a nice couple and their daughter.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dead.”

“Sorry,” Daryl says.

“We weren’t close,” Paul replies, eyes distant, “I barely saw them, like I said I’m gone most of the time.”

“And nobody else has asked to move in?”

“My trailer is one of the smaller FEMA models, it really can’t hold a lot of people. Anyways, most people want to stay where they’re at, with their friends.”

“Not you?”

“No, I like my privacy. I feel guilty as hell about it, you know how much we need the space, but,” Paul shrugs, “I’ve brought it up a few times, people keep telling me I deserve it, for all the running around I do. Wheelin’ and dealin.’”

“They ain’t wrong,” Daryl says. Paul can be annoying as fuck but Daryl can admit that he does his job and does it well. He thinks the people of Hilltop are lucky to have Paul, and if his own space is all he wants in return then it’s a bargain.

A grin split’s Paul’s face, “Mr Dixon! Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t ruin it,” Daryl answers.

“This shall warm me on many long and lonely nights on the road next month.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, even as his cheeks heat up. Paul just laughs, and says, “Anyhow. You’re welcome to stay while I’m gone. Just try not to mess up the order of my books too much, and don’t smoke inside.”

“I’ll think about,” Daryl says.

Paul nods a little and they go back to their game of cards. Daryl has been losing all afternoon and is convinced the little shit is cheating. He's too sly to be caught, however. Daryl keeps close and doesn’t see anything no matter how hard he looks.

*************

The morning Paul is set to leave on his run he takes Daryl to his trailer and of course it's the one farthest away from the house. Daryl isn’t annoyed that he has to hobble out this far, Doctor Carson said he was to move around as much as possible. He _is_ annoyed by the gauntlet of Hilltop folk they must survive first. They swarm out of their trailers like cockroaches and descend upon Paul.

“Jesus! Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Hey Jesus, how are you doing? Do you think you could find me a new pair of boots when you’re out next?

“Jesus! I thought you’d left already! Do you want to come over later, we could use someone on rhythm guitar.”

“I need to talk to you about something, Jesus. It’s private though.”

And on and on and on. Daryl is content to be ignored, but because Paul is awful he insists on introducing him to the neighbors. Daryl gets a lot of confused stares and the girl who asked Paul about playing the guitar seems low key hostile.

“Don’t take it to heart,” Paul says when Daryl mentions it, “They have the wrong idea about your _intentions_.”

“My ‘intentions’?”

“The straights can be,” Paul sighs, “unfortunate. It’s gotten around that Alex and I are no more, so they see me walking a guy back to my trailer and assume the only reason I could possibly be doing it is so I can make mad, passionate love to him. I’d be offended if it weren’t for the fact I’d eagerly live up to those assumptions if you didn’t insist on breaking my heart every day.”

Daryl comes to a stop and glares at him. He remembers that Hank fellow turning red and hightailing it as soon as Daryl told him he was “in the middle of something” with Paul. The fuckhead had _known_ what the guy was thinking and hadn’t bothered to correct him. “How long did you say you’d be gone? A month?”

“Three weeks.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t need to take a month to do whatever it is you’re doing? Maybe two?”

“You say things like that, but I know you’re going to miss me when I’m gone. Here we are,” Paul says, “Home sweet home.”

They’ve arrived at Paul’s trailer, and Daryl can see why he’s allowed to keep it to himself. It’s a cramped single wide that has seen better days and is probably half the size of the next smallest trailer. It’s mounted on cinder blocks and there are rough wooden steps that creak alarmingly when Daryl puts his weight on them.

“Let me give you the tour,” Paul says when they get inside. It’s a short tour.

The entrance leads into a small living room. There’s a short couch that makes Daryl’s back hurt just to look at it and a space cleared in front of it with an exercise mat spread out. Every other inch of space is buried in books, haphazard pile upon pile of books.

At one end of the living room is a galley kitchen with a card table surrounded by four mismatched chairs. All but one of them has a stack of books on it.

On the other side of the living room is a narrow hallway leading to the two bedrooms and the john. The first room is about the size of the cell Daryl slept in at the prison. It has bunk beds that have been appropriated for bookshelves and the floor is also covered in books. There are mountains of books, and Daryl starts to suspect that the house rule of not getting them out of order was just Paul fucking with him.

“You can sleep in my room while I’m gone; the bed’s more comfortable and has the advantage of not needing to be cleared off first. Come on; let me show you my pride and joy.”

Paul’s pride and joy turns out to be a jury rigged portable water heater hooked up to a propane tank and hanging outside the shower.

“Hot water,” Paul says, showing Daryl the controls, “It takes a minute to heat up properly. You may use the shower, in fact I encourage it, but I’m begging you to go easy. It’s getting harder and harder to find propane, and my shower isn’t the most important thing in Hilltop that needs it.”

The master bedroom is at the very end of the hall on the other side of the bathroom. It’s bigger than the other bedroom but still on the small side. The bed is a full size and is shoved into the corner. Compared to the other rooms this one is practically Spartan.

“So what do you think?” Paul asks.

“S’alright.”

“Mr Dixon I wish that sometimes you could be succinct instead of rambling on and on.”

Daryl ignores him and crutches back into the living space of the house. He doesn’t feel like trying to lever himself down onto the couch so he takes the only empty kitchen chair.

Paul follows and leans against the kitchen counter, “I’ve got some food in the cupboards and I can have someone bring you more if you don’t feel like hauling yourself out at dinner time.”

“I’ll manage,” he says, then “Thanks for this.” He’s only been in for a few minutes and he already feels better. More in control of himself.

Paul smiles and it’s one of his soft, genuine ones. It makes him look a lot younger and Daryl realizes that he has no idea how old the other man actually is. It’s another thing he’s never bothered to ask. Early to mid-thirties he thinks, but there are times when Paul looks like he could be twenty-five or even younger. It’s a strange thing to ask out of the blue however so he just files the thought away for another time.

“I’m a sucker for you Daryl, I must admit,” Paul says. “Anything you want me to bring back while I’m out?”

“I’m good,” Daryl says, “Are you going to the Kingdom?”

“I plan to stop there, yes.”

“I’ve got something I wrote to Carol,” he says. It’s not a long letter but it took him forever to write it. Finding the words were difficult.

“I’d be happy to give it to her.”

“Thanks.”

“Two thank yous in as many minutes. I feel blessed.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Daryl answers. Paul grins and Daryl’s own lips twitch. He has the surprising realization that the little fucker was right, Daryl _is_ going to miss him when he’s gone.

*************

Paul doesn’t stay much longer. He gathers a few things and makes his goodbyes then he sets out. After he leaves Daryl spends the rest of the day in blissful solitude. Despite Paul’s offer of the shower Daryl can’t indulge without getting his cast wet so he settles for a quick whore’s bath with a washcloth he finds by the sink.

When it’s time for sleep he heads for Paul’s bedroom. Before he gets in bed he notices there’s a book on the nightstand that wasn’t there earlier. The title is _Watership Down_ and when he picks it up to take a look a slip of paper falls out. Written on it is:

_Daryl,_

_Meant to give you this one earlier but it slipped my mind. Yes, it is about bunnies but please just give it a few chapters before dismissing it. It mirrors the situation of the world these days quite a bit; sometimes eerily so._

_-P._

Bunnies, huh? He eyes to book skeptically and decides it’s as good as anything else. He settles into bed with the book on his chest and goes to light the lantern. Paul’s left a book of matches out for him so he doesn’t really have an excuse to poke around in Paul’s nightstand. It’s just plain nosiness. The top drawer has more matches, candles, a flashlight, and a single battered photograph of a handsome middle-aged woman. He takes it out for a closer look and he knows instantly she can only be Paul’s mother. She has Paul’s striking grey-green eyes and arched brows, the same nose with its slight little ski-jump curve, and the same generous mouth. There’s also something indefinable about her expression, a sly playfulness Daryl sees often on Paul’s face. He puts it back carefully.

He pays for his nosiness when he opens the next drawer. It has three boxes of condoms as well as several loose ones scattered across the bottom of the drawer. There’s also two large bottles of KY, one is half empty. He slams the drawer shut immediately, face turning red. He remembers what Paul had said about him and Alex, realizes they fucked in this same bed. The thought makes him itchy and uncomfortable and he briefly considers going and clearing off one of the bunks before realizing how ridiculous he’s being. He’s slept in _dirt_ before. He’s slept on couches at various friends’ houses that were a lot more suspicious looking than this bed. The sheets smell clean at least.

It’s surprisingly hard to shake the thought from him mind, however. It’s just so damn mortifying. He spends a long time tossing and turning with burning cheeks while he tries to stop thinking about it. Eventually he sleeps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this done last weekend but I got ambushed by "real life".


	5. Now

They’ve only been driving for a few hours when they are forced to stop. They’ve reached a stream and the bridge is completely gone. It looks like it had been ripped up and carried off by giants; the whole thing is a wash of mud crawling with walkers. Daryl wonders what the fuck happened—if there was some kind of military attack like when they napalmed Atlanta. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way; they ain’t crossing here.

“See if you can find us another way,” Rick says, passing Daryl the map. He backs the car up and heads back the way they came. Michonne takes out the radio to check in with the other groups. Neither of them has found anything.

Daryl knows they’re really no worse off than before but part of him is still a mess of rage and frustration to have to turn back. If he gives into this feeling he might go insane.

He tries to force himself to stop thinking about it. Concentrate on the map; try to find an alternate route. Before they set out they narrowed down what they thought the three most likely routes Paul coulde have taken and split them amongst themselves. Maggie’s group had taken the one they were most certain of while Daryl choked down his protests. It didn’t fucking matter.

The map is nothing but lines again, impossible to make sense of. He looks at the little line Rick drew on this particular map, indicating the road they were supposed to search. Looks at all the roads and open country in the search area and feels overwhelmed with helplessness. Paul was on a fucking horse, he didn’t have to stick to the roads. They could drive past his corpse and not see it.

He feels like he’s trapped in a nightmare—he’s done all this before and it has never accomplished a damn thing. He went into Atlanta to look for Merle only to find him gone. He spent days hunting for Sophia only to find out she’d been dead and one of those _things_ since he first started. Beth had been taken from him and he’d chased after her until he’d literally dropped from exhaustion. His vengeance-driven hunt for Dwight ended with him getting shot and his friends captured.

“You ok back there?” Michonne asks, snapping him out of it.

“Yeah,” he answers, and forces himself to study the map. “Not this road but the next one you’ll want to make a left,” he tells Rick. He looks up and catches Michonne’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He looks away quickly and out the window. The shadows are lengthening and Daryl knows they only have a few good hours of daylight before they won’t be able to keep searching. The thought makes him sick. He doesn’t think he can live with himself if they don’t find Paul and Daryl has to just go back to Alexandria without him. Resign himself to never knowing what happened.

The alternate bridge they find is still intact but it is blocked thoroughly by abandoned vehicles. Rick has to park the car and the three of them have to get out to clear the way. Open car doors, kill any walkers inside, pop the car into neutral, and then push it aside. They’re able to create a space wide enough for their car to squeeze through. Then they move on.

The area they pass through is all rolling, wooded hills in one direction and tasteful homes in the other. Everything is wild and overgrown—shrubs and vines have grown over cars and houses. He hears Paul’s voice in his head, singing: _The land returns to how it’s always been…Cruel nature has won again…”_ Or something like that; it was one of the songs that was featured regularly in Paul’s morning rotation.

They pass through an open field surrounded by a split rail fence. Daryl thinks it might have been a park once but the grass is so overgrown it’s impossible to tell. What is now is a gathering place for about two dozen walkers. He tightens his grip on his crossbow but only a few start wandering towards the car, the rest are focused on a particular area. He almost misses it as they drive past and he almost doesn’t get the significance of what he’s seeing either. When he does his heart jerks in his chest.

“Stop the car,” Daryl says. Rick slows down and Daryl is out of his door before the car has come to a full stop. His mind is curiously blank as he approaches. He reaches the fence and hops over, vaguely aware that Michonne is not far behind him.

The grass comes up past his knees, he should be more cautious as there could be some crawlers hidden down there but he doesn’t slow to check. He’s drawn the attention of a few of the scattered walkers in the field and they start to shuffle over.

“Daryl!” Michonne barks. He ignores her; all his attention is on a cluster of walkers piled on top of one another. Surrounding something big.

One of the scattered walkers approaches. It’s one that’s so old its clothes have rotted off and it’s impossible to tell anything about what it had looked like alive. It lifts its arms up as it gets closer; most of the flesh on the right arm has been eaten down to nothing but bones and strings of sinew. As he walks by it he grabs its throat and jams a crossbow bolt into its temple then shoves it away without breaking his stride. He can smell the stink of blood and rotting meat. The scuffle alerted some of the walker in that heaving, rolling pile. They abandon what has drawn in their fellows and start shuffling slowly towards Daryl. Enough come that they provide a gap and Daryl can see just what it is they’ve been feasting on. He slams to a stop—it’s the skeletal remains of a horse.

Daryl feels the world rush away and a red haze goes over his vision. He charges the Walkers without conscious thought; vaguely aware of Michonne yelling for him to stop. He doesn’t listen, and then he’s among the dead. He spends his crossbow bolts early, when he’s out he uses the bow as a club until it’s clear enough to pull his knife free.

Dead hands grip at him, bloody dead faces flash in front of him and are pulverized by his knife. He can smell the stink of the dead, rotting flesh and coppery blood. He’s grabbed by half a dozen hands and pulled, a Walker that was once a squat old woman is lunging in to bite. Before it can there’s a flash of metal and its head goes flying—Michonne has just entered the fray. Her sword flashes again, cutting hands from dead bodies and freeing Daryl.

He hasn’t even slowed; he just keeps raising his knife and stabbing it through skulls. He has the last walker down on the ground and is stabbing it repeatedly in the face with his knife. It’s a mess of blood and bone and chunks of flesh and he keeps hacking away at it. He’s grabbed by the shoulders and pulled up and away and then Rick is shouting in his face, “Daryl! _Daryl_!”

The world comes back to him. He’s soaked in sweat and covered in blood and walker gunk. Rick’s fingers dig into Daryl’s shoulders. His blue eyes are wide and he’s looking at Daryl like his friend has just lost his fucking mind. Michonne comes to Rick’s side, sword out and on high alert with every muscle tense. Her eyes go from scanning the field to Daryl’s face.

Daryl looks around at the pile of corpses surrounding them; there are over a dozen of them. He lets out a harsh breath and shoves Rick away, staggering a few steps. He can’t speak; it feels like a giant vice is crushing his lungs. He blinks rapidly then starts inspecting the faces of the dead. He doesn’t remember seeing Paul’s face among his kills but the entire fight is hazy and Rick or Michonne could have been the ones to get him.

“He’s not here,” Michonne says after a few minutes.

Daryl can see that, but that also doesn’t mean anything. Paul could have left the sad remains of Glue Boy if he was alive or dead.

And it is Glue Boy, there’s a strip of skin with a familiar dappled grey coat still attached to the bloody skull. It would be enough even if Daryl hadn’t recognized the gear that the walkers hadn’t destroyed.

“Daryl? Are you with us?” Rick asks.

Daryl opens his mouth to say he’ll fine but what comes out in a choked voice is, “He loved this stupid fucking horse.”

“Hey,” Rick says, “Look at me. He’s not here, ok? It’s not over.”

“If he’s out here we’re going to find him,” Michonne says. She rests a hand on his shoulder and he can’t bear to look at her, just squeezes his eyes shut.

“Daryl,” she says softly, “We’re gonna keep looking. We need you for that.”

Daryl opens his eyes. Michonne’s expression is impossibly gentle. He feels like he’s going to fall to pieces but he forces himself together with sheer will. “Yeah,” he rasps out. He turns to stare at what’s left of Glue Boy and thinks, _Paul where the fuck are you._

**********

Rick stops to radio the other groups to let them know where they are and what they’ve found. Then he joins Daryl and Michonne in circling around the field scanning for any trace of Paul. The grass is tall and springy and walkers have been tramping to and fro so the whole thing is a damn mess. It also doesn’t help that the sun is inching closer to the horizon and it’s getting darker. There isn’t much daylight left.

_Don’t worry about that now_ , Daryl tells himself savagely, _Don’t panic, don’t rush, you’ll miss something if you rush_. He makes himself go slow and look at every inch of ground. Tries to empty his mind except for analyzing what he’s seeing. He’s almost in that head space when he hears car doors slam shut—Maggie’s group has arrived. He watches as one after another they hop the fence and start heading into the field. Rick goes to talk to Maggie and leads her over to take a look at what’s left of Glue Boy. She stares at the bloody pile of bones for a long time. Daryl swallows hard and goes back to his search. He’s dimly aware that Dante, Bryan, and Marco have started to search the field as well.

Rosita and Sasha’s group is approaching just as Dante calls out, “Here! I found something!” Daryl and the others race over to take a look. Daryl sees the signs of dozens of walkers tramping and making a mess over everything. But the tire tracks are still visible as are the bloody smears on the grass and what is left of what looks like three people. It’s difficult to tell, it’s a mix of chewed bones and torn clothing.

Daryl looks around at the rest of the group. Maggie is staring wide-eyed at the remains. She’s deathly pale and looks a little green.

“Do any of you recognize any of the clothes? Do you see anything of Jesus’?” Rick asks the Hilltop contingent, voice grave.

Daryl makes himself look. It’s worse than when he examined the walkers; then it was immediate reassurance that none were Paul. This search takes longer and there are several times Daryl finds a piece of something and is certain he recognizes it. These pieces don’t stand up to closer scrutiny but there is still enough niggling doubt to make him feel ill.

They’re still examining the mess in front of them when Sasha and Rosita make their way over. Heath and Siddiq are by the vehicles, guns drawn and looking warily at the sky.

“I don’t see anything,” Maggie says. Then she turns to the side and vomits explosively. The entire group stares but she doesn’t comment, just wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “Kal, you saw him last.”

To Daryl’s relief Kal also shakes his head. Daryl sees something glinting in the grass and bends down to pick it up. It’s a spent shell case. “Rick,” Daryl says, holding it up.

That one shell case is only the beginning; once they dig around they find more. A lot more. They also find shiny bits of broken safety glass. Daryl stares at the tire tracks, the shell casings, trying to piece the scene together.

Paul probably had tried to run cross country, make for the woods where they couldn’t follow. They shot the horse out from underneath him, this wasn’t a walker kill. If Glue Boy had been swarmed immediately his remains would be long gone. No, the horde devouring his corpse had come gradually.

Paul’s pursuers could have shot the horse out from underneath him, Paul would have been thrown off and maybe been injured. Daryl looks at the number of shell casings and bits of shattered safety glass. No, he thinks. If he was thrown off he wasn’t badly hurt. Hell, he might have done a back flip and landed on his feet like a damn cat. He wouldn’t put it past Paul. Either way his pursuers would come for him, guns drawn.

People had a tendency to underestimate Paul due to his size and youthful appearance. Daryl had underestimated him before, he’s learned better since then. He looks at the bloody smears on the grass. Paul could have disarmed his pursuer and opened fire on the rest of the group. Daryl chews his lip. Had Paul killed them all, then taken the car? He could have been hurt, could have died. They could have driven past his corpse locked inside one of the endless rows of abandoned cars.

No, he couldn’t think like that, not now. That panicky feeling is starting to come back. He swallows it down and tells the rest of the group his thoughts.

“I think you’re right,” Rick says. He’s using his Cop Voice again, “I think there were at least five of them. Jesus must have fought like hell.” There’s pride in his voice.

“What now?” Michonne says, with a glance at the sky. Half the sun has been eaten up the the horizon.

“It’s gonna be dark soon,” Rick says, “We need to call it for tonight. We won’t find anything else out here.”

“I ain’t going back without him,” Daryl says instantly.

“Neither am I,” Maggie says.

“I’m not asking you to,” Rick says, and turns his attention to Michonne. He studies her for a long time, and then looks at Daryl, “I was hoping to avoid this. But we need reinforcements and we need information. The Sanctuary is closer than Hilltop or Alexandria, we can go there for the night and can ask if they’ve seen or heard anything unusual.”

Daryl stares at him in disbelief. “No,” he says flatly. He hasn’t set foot near the Sanctuary since the war when they attacked it. He _won’t_ go there unless it’s for the same reason.

Michonne hasn’t said anything and her face is stiff. Daryl meets her eyes. He’s not sure what she sees in his face, but whatever it is makes her turn to Rick and say, “You’re right. If you think it can help find Jesus we should go.”

“It ain’t safe,” Daryl says, “I can stay out here, keep looking if you give me one of the cars,” he knows how unlikely it will be finding a trail in the dark but he doesn’t give a shit. He’d rather wander around in circles than go back to the Sanctuary.

“I was thinking we should check it anyway,” Maggie says, interrupting Daryl’s thoughts. “If he got hurt around here he would know the Sanctuary is closer, he might have headed in that direction.”

Daryl goes still. That’s fucking unfair of you Miss Greene, he thinks. The only thing that could possibly outweigh his refusal to come within eyesight of the Sanctuary is the slimmest of chances that Paul could be there. He knows that the other man isn’t there of course but now that little flicker of hope has been lit.

“I agree with Daryl,” Kal says, “For all we know it’s someone at the Sanctuary who did this. Even if it’s Ogden and his crew they could be working with someone on the inside.”

“I hope so,” Rick answers, “It will be easier to find them that way. But right now they could be anywhere. We’ve got a trail but we can’t follow it at night. We go, see what we can find out, get some rest, and start again as soon as it gets light.”

That is also fucking unfair, Daryl thinks. Now in addition to that little flicker of hope he gets a full blast of anger. If someone at the Sanctuary knows anything about this and _helped_ this happen then Daryl is going to kill them. He feels a faint echo of the madness that compelled him to charge a dozen walkers by himself.

“Alright,” Daryl says. Michonne looks at him with worry and she isn’t the only one, so he knows his voice must hint at some of his feelings. No one says anything about it, they just start heading back to the cars. Daryl takes one last look at the horse’s skeleton and the pile of dead walkers before following.

**********

As the Sanctuary comes into view Daryl feels his pulse speed up. He looks away, focuses on Michonne in the front seat. Her jaw is set and her lips are pressed together. Rick slows the car as they approach the gate and lays one hand on hers. She grips his fingers tightly for a few seconds then lets go.

Daryl makes himself look up at the Sanctuary. Twenty or so years before the end of the world it had been a steel mill that had been abandoned and let decay. The main building was a massive pile of red brick with two huge smoke stacks towering over everything.

Daryl first saw it after the night in the woods, Negan had made them look. The whole thing is fractured in his memory; it’s all in pieces still. Those pieces are crystal clear, however.

_He could hear the dead outside of the van. It sounded like a herd of hundreds. The van slowed to a stop, the engine still on and idling. After a few moments Ogden threw the door open and Daryl thought for a few seconds that he had looped back around to earlier and he was about to be put back in the lineup. A feeling that increased when he was dragged out along with Carl and Michonne._

_“Wanna show you folks something,” Negan said, appearing out of nowhere, “In case any of you start getting ideas, trying to be clever. On your feet, Hardcase.”_

_Daryl couldn’t stand on his own, Michonne and Carl had to get on either side of him and hold him up. He stood trembling and saw the Sanctuary for the first time._

_Fires ringed the gates, casting orange light all over everything and so that it looked like they’d just gotten their tickets punched and gone straight to Hell. Hundreds of the dead surrounded the Sanctuary. Dead impaled on spikes and dead lashed down with chains to a junkyard’s worth of cars. Dead torsos mounted on more spikes like the world’s most fucked up scarecrows. Severed heads still trying to bite littered the ground between the feet of the dead. The noise and stench were stupefying. No matter how you thought you’d become immune to the scent of rot it could still sucker punch you. Daryl ended up doubling over and dry heaving while Carl and Michonne struggled to keep him on his feet._

_A corridor enforced by cement barricades lead through the field of the dead. Negan made them walk through it first with the van and the rest of the Savior Caravan inching behind them. The van had its brights on which illuminated everything. It was a gauntlet of stretching hands and rotting flesh and that constant gurgling moan of the dead. He wanted to cover his ears, but all he could do was slump against Carl and Michonne. He was able to keep his feet until he was inside where all his strength failed him and he went down._

_He drifted into consciousness aware he was laid out on a flat metal table. Someone peeled his eyes open and shined a bright little light in them, blinding him for several seconds. He blinked rapidly, struggling to clear his vision. He could hear a rapid snip snip snip of a pair of scissors and then felt cold air hit his skin as his shirt was pulled off._

_“You should have brought him here earlier, he’s lost a lot of blood,” Curt. Angry._

_“Negan needed him to be around tonight. Blame Dwight, the dumb fucker wasn’t supposed to shoot him. Just patch him up best you can, Doc.”_

_Daryl’s vision cleared and he could see a man with reddish brown hair leaning over and examining his shoulder with a tight frown._

I know him _, Daryl thought,_ where do I know him from _._

_“He needs antibiotics, fluids, painkillers, the works,” the familiar Doctor said to Ogden._

_“Do you know how many points he would need to earn for all that stuff? He doesn’t need to last long.”_

_“Antibiotics then, unless you want him to die,” the familiar looking doctor said._

_“I’ll see if there’s any to spare,” Ogden said. “Ta for now, Daryl.” He left, whistling that fucking song._

_Daryl blinked as the doctor leaned over him, and it clicked. “Doctor Carson?” he slurred out._

_The doctor frowned down at him, “Have we met?”_

_“At the Hilltop,” Daryl said, uncertain. He hadn’t spent much time up close and personal with the Hilltop Doctor, he thinks this guy has longer hair, and Daryl would have remembered the scar…_

_Dr Carson looked completely stricken. “Do you mean Harlan? He’s my brother,” Daryl squinted up at him, making the connection even as Carson said, “We’re twins. You wouldn’t be the first to confuse us, it made med school interesting,” the Doctor blinked, eyes bright, “But you’ve seen him? Recently?”_

_Daryl closed his eyes, exhausted. “Yeah, I seen him. Saved his dang life, me ‘n Glenn.”_

_“My wife Bertie? Did you see her too?”_

_Daryl found it difficult to think, the world was starting to grey out again. He remembered that big fucker Ethan going after Rick, he remembered breaking someone’s arm, the ride in the camper to the Hilltop, Paul Rovia talking to the frightened Hilltop survivors they’d picked up._

_“Black gal?” Daryl said finally, “Early thirties, dark skin, pretty?”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, that’s my wife.”_

_“She was fine when I saw her last. We saved her too.”_

_“Oh,” Carson said, slumping over and raising a trembling hand to his face. He had to visibly gather himself together before he could start stitching Daryl’s shoulder closed._

_“What are you doing here?” Daryl asked, “If they’re at Hilltop.”_

_“When the Saviors came they said they wanted half of everything. Saw they had two identical doctors so they grabbed me,” Carson’s voice was unsteady but his hands weren’t, “Harlan tried to go in my place, because of Bertie, but we’d already made the mistake of telling them what our specialties were. Harlan’s an OB-GYN and I’m a trauma surgeon. You can guess which one they thought was more valuable._

_“We work on a point system here,” Carson said, “Everyone works for points and those points can be exchanged for services. I’ve got a lot stored up; I’ll be sure to get you something for the pain.” Daryl thought that sounded fucking fantastic as he drifted away again._

_When Daryl woke up he knew Carson had been successful as he was in the dreamy, floaty haze of strong narcotics. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm was strapped to his chest to immobilize it. He was lying on a bare mattress inside a narrow, dimly lit room. It smelled like well water— metallic and harsh. The only light came from a slot halfway up the door._

_He pushed himself up into a sitting position and heard a rattle of metal as he did so. He looked down and saw that his legs were shackled together. The chain looked long enough to allow him to shuffle around but not at a fast pace. A third chain tethered him to a mess of exposed industrial piping on the back wall._

_“Daryl?” a voice called out._

_“Michonne? Where are you?”_

_“Right next to you,” she replied, “There’s a gap in the wall around one of the pipes.”_

_Daryl got laboriously to his feet, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. Following the sound of Michonne’s voice he shuffled the few feet back to the far wall. He found the gap Michonne was talking about; it was low to the ground and he had to sink to his knees. He wasn’t sure he could get up again._

_He pressed his face close to the gap and peered inside. It was dark, and his body bocked off what little light there was, but he could see the glint of Michonne’s eye where she had pressed it up against the gap._

_“Are you ok?” she asked._

_“Fantastic,” he said, “You?”_

_“I’ve had better days.”_

_“Where’s Carl?”_

_“I don’t know,” Michonne’s voice shook just the slightest amount, “They took him somewhere else.”_

_Daryl pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall, guilt twisting through him. He felt light-headed and nauseous._

_“I’m sorry for getting you into this,” he choked out._

_“He would have gotten us anyway,” she said, “Carl said the whole group was taking Maggie to Hilltop, something was wrong with the baby.”_

_Daryl remembered how pale and ill Maggie looked, trembling on her knees. Negan said he should just put her out of her misery, Glenn had shouted at that and lunged for his wife._

_“What do we do?” Daryl rasped out._

_“For now? We wait,” Michonne said._

***********

_He was jarred awake by the sound of his cell door clanging open. A figure was silhouetted in the door._

_“Up and fucking at ‘em, Hardcase!” Negan’s voice echoed through Daryl’s tiny cell, “It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and the kid needs a lesson or two before he can remember the rules.”_

_Before Daryl could puzzle that out the figure of Negan was joined by more. Daryl heard the click of the hammer of a gun drawn back and he was told not to fucking try anything. He almost laughed in their faces, the most he was capable of at the moment was staying on his feet and he wasn’t sure about that. The pain killers Carson gave him had faded and he was no longer in shock and his shoulder. Fucking._ Hurt _. Hurt so bad he thought he would throw up._

_He and Michonne were dragged out and thrown to their knees and Daryl got a quick look at where they were being held. Underground somewhere, he thought. Narrow and close and claustrophobic._

_In front of them was Carl Grimes, looking pale and truly scared for the first time that night._

_“You told my dad you wouldn’t hurt us!” Carl shouted at Negan._

_“I said_ I _wouldn’t,” Negan answered, “Ogden over there can, though. And he’s gonna. Rules is rules, kid. Which will be, kid? Mommy or Hardcase?”_

_“Fuck you,” spat out Carl._

_Negan didn’t look angry; he looked like a thirteen year old girl who has just spotted an adorable little kitten. He smiled indulgently, “Now now kiddo, no need for that kind of fucking language. If you’re worried about Lucille here,” he patted the bat that rested against his shoulder, “She’s a bloodthirsty bitch and even though she drank her fill tonight she_ definitely _would be happy to have a little more. But she’s a one man gal,” he caressed the bat like he was about to jerk it off, “So I’m not asking who to introduce her to. Whoever you pick will be a bit sore but hunky fucking dory in a few days.”_

_Daryl saw that Ogden had a length of thick electrical cord looped around his fist. Daryl shivered and steeled himself. His dad had lashed him with stuff like that before, he could fucking take it._

_“Carl,” Michonne said, “Look at him, he’s still hurt. It could kill him.”_

Daryl is pulled out of this memory when Rick comes to a complete stop just outside the Sanctuary gates. He looks around; like everywhere else the place is changed. The minefield of the dead is gone, the walkers dragged off and buried or burnt somewhere. The cars are most gone as well, a few remain in strategic places covered in spikes. Bright green grass and wildflowers are there now.

Two Sanctuary guards hail them from the gates. Their weapons are drawn and they’re looking nervously at the small caravan. Daryl thinks he recognizes one of them—an awkward looking guy with too much neck and not enough chin.

Rick gets out of the car followed by Michonne and Daryl. The guards stare at Daryl and particularly Michonne with open terror, something Daryl finds deeply satisfying. They’d left a bloody trail of destruction behind them when they made their escape and that type of thing tended to leave an impression.

Rick extends a hand to one of the guards and says, “Hi. I’m Rick.”

“I know who you are,” says the guard. His eyes flicker back and forth between the three of them.

“We’re not here for any trouble,” Rick says, “We just need to talk to Dwight. One of our people is missing and we’re trying to track him down.”

The guard goes to radio inside and Rick turns to Daryl. “Look, I know how you feel about Dwight. Can you keep it together enough to talk to him, or do you need to wait out here?” 

“I’m good,” Daryl grunts. His fingers are curling into a tight fist. 

The guard’s conversation is over and he waves them inside. Rick signals to other two cars, indicating that they should wait there for now before he follows the guard into the Sanctuary. Michonne follows without hesitation, her shoulders back and her head high. Unlike Daryl, who hesitates a few moments before walking into the Sanctuary for the first time in months.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Then

Daryl spends most of his first few days at Paul’s trailer in blissful solitude. Paul’s bed is more comfortable than the one he’d been sleeping on in the infirmary; the room is smaller and the door can be latched. There are no strangers randomly coming in and trying to make conversation with him.

He still has to deal with that on his way to and from Barrington house but he’s slowly training Paul’s neighbors out of it. A few brave souls continue to try and make smalltalk with him but they respect the closed door of the trailer.

It’s too good to last. One morning he’s still stretched out in bed reading (he’s almost done with _Watership Down_ and is surprised how much he’s enjoying a story about bunnies) when he hears a pounding on the trailer door. He jerks to attention, grabs a crutch and his knife and hobbles out.

There’s a woman at the door. She’s massive, taller than Daryl and with powerful arms and a thick body. She’s sixty if she’s a day, and Daryl thinks in her prime she could have picked him up and broken him in half without much effort. As it is she just looks him up and down and makes a face 

“Who are you?" 

“Daryl, who the fuck are you?” Daryl.

“Miss Dina, and if you swear at me again you’ll be needing another cast. Where’s Jesus?”

“Left a few days ago, won’t be back for weeks,” he starts to shut the door in her face and she sticks her foot in.

“I’m here for his laundry,” she says, pushing inside past Daryl, almost knocking his cast out from underneath him. He’s too startled to protest when she marches back to the bedroom and starts stripping the sheets and blankets from the bed. She gives Daryl a stinkeye as she does so. He returns it.

When she leaves Daryl spots his shirt in the pile tucked under one powerful arm. “That’s mine,” Daryl says and snatches it back.

She snorts, “Any more of this shit yours? This ain’t charity; Jesus compensates me for my time. You want me to do you then you need to make arrangements.”

Miss Dina returns Paul’s laundry that evening, just as Daryl is settling down into bed. Despite what she said earlier about this not being charity she must take pity on him because she gathers up Daryl’s dirty things and mutters something about Jesus owing her. When she brings his clothes back the following afternoon they’re mended as well as clean.

“You tell him he owes me four extra batteries when you see him next. Two for washing your shit and another two for how foul it was. And don’t give me that look or I’ll kick your butt up ‘til it’s between your shoulders.”

She turns to leave then freezes in the door on her way out. She gives Daryl a hard look, “You be nice to Jesus, you hear? He’s a good boy.”

***********

Daryl is carefully making his way back to the trailer with his evening meal. It’s slow going; he balances the plate on one forearm like a waitress and leans against a crutch on the other.

“Do you need help carrying that?” a voice calls and Daryl is about to reflexively say “No” when he sees that it’s Tara haling him. He hasn’t seen her much lately; with Paul gone she’s the best supply runner at the Hilltop and spends most of her days outside the walls.

“You really need to come out of your cave for dinner every once in a while,” she says as she lifts the plate off his arm.

“I’m out now, ain’t I?”

“Doesn’t count. How did you get the cooks to feed you early?”

“Dunno,” Daryl says, not wanting to answer. The cooks are fucking ruthless when it comes to people trying to eat early but they indulge Daryl because it gives them a chance to fish for information about Paul. It’s annoying but preferable to eating with everyone else. Tara tells him to go ahead and keep his secrets and they walk in companionable silence all the way to the trailer.

“Wow, hoarder central,” Tara says when she steps inside the trailer.

“The man likes his books,” Daryl says, hobbling to the kitchen table. Tara sets the plate down in front of him and Daryl digs in with just his fingers, “Careful not to get them out of order,” Daryl warns as she starts to poke around.

Tara raises her eyebrows at him, “They’re in _order_?”

“Supposedly.”

Tara still looks skeptical but she is careful to place the books in the correct pile as she rifles through them. She finds one and asks Daryl if he thinks that Jesus would mind her borrowing it.

“If he minds I’ll say it was me,” Daryl says. He hopes Paul does mind; Daryl’s more than happy to annoy Paul Rovia if the situation arises.

*****************

Daryl leans against his crutches and watches Glenn run his hands over the wall, fingers feeling out the knots in the wood.

“Buy it a drink first,” Daryl says after several minutes of this.

“Ha ha,” Glenn says, stepping back and lowering his hands. He reaches out and feels around for his walking stick. Daryl learned quick not to help him find it so he just watches as Glenn’s hand misses it by a few inches a couple of times before he zeroes in on it. The two of them continue their walk.

They’ve taken to doing this in the afternoons—Daryl for the exercise and Glenn to learn every inch of the Hilltop. _I probably won’t leave these walls again alive_ , Glenn had said to Daryl one day. He didn’t sound sad or happy when he said it; just matter of fact. Daryl wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

A handful of people call out hello to Glenn as they pass by. Some of them say hello to Daryl.

“This is a nice place,” Glenn says.

“’S’alright,” Daryl says, “Too many people.”

“We don’t know how many people we have here, actually. Jesus says more than a hundred and less than two; that’s the closest guess he has.”

Daryl remembers Maggie saying that Gregory never bothered to find out just how many survivors lived here. “Suppose you could do a head count at dinner one night.”

“You’re not the only one who avoids them,” Glenn says, “It’s not just the number;, it’s what people can _do_. I mean the obvious stuff like Dr Carson and the builders but take a look at me. I learned strategy from playing video games.”

“Surely everyone who can do what needs doin’ has started already.”

Glenn shakes his head, “We don’t know that. For the past year at least everyone has had to do nothing but farm or scavenge for the Saviors. Even Dr Carson had to do runs.”

“So you’re going to…what? Just interview every person in Hilltop?” .

“ _We’re_ going to interview every person at Hilltop.” Daryl was afraid he’d say that. Glenn continues, “Well, I’ll do the interviewing, you just take notes,” he chews on his lips, “And help me figure out if there’s anything about these people I’m missing. You’re good at reading people. Maybe even give me a few ideas on what to do with them.”

“You don’t need me for that.”

“You did this sort of thing before,” Glenn insists, “At the prison. We had the council,” he pauses, “And you were good at it.”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Thinking back to the prison and all that happened there hurts. When he looks back their time there seems impossibly innocent and peaceful despite all they’d gone through and the losses they suffered. He thought he’d seen some shit but he hadn’t yet, not really. None of them had. He hadn’t seen the prison destroyed, everything they’d worked for and every person he’d tried to save gone in minutes. Hadn’t stood by helplessly as Hershel was executed in front of them.

Hadn’t seen Terminus.

“That was a while ago,” Daryl says in a thick voice, “And I wasn’t that good at it.” If he were he wouldn’t have stopped hunting for the Governor and encouraged Michonne to do the same.

“You were. We both were,” Glenn says the last bit forcefully, like he’s trying to remind himself as much as Daryl. “You said you were going crazy without something to do, remember that? How much longer are you in that cast?”

“Two or three weeks.”

“So you can’t go on runs or help farm, not for a while. I need _someone_ to write stuff down for me.”

“With my handwriting anyone else tries to read it they’ll do ‘bout good as you.”

“We’ll manage. I don’t think we want to get too elaborate with what we ask; not like Deanna’s interviews were. She had more time and less people.”

Daryl gets drawn in despite himself, more as a sounding board than anything else. Glenn looks the liveliest Daryl’s seen him since he woke up.

*************

In the end they settle on six questions. Name, age, occupation _before_. Those three; and the three they’ve always asked. Maggie makes an announcement at dinner one night and word spreads pretty quickly around Hilltop. Daryl and Glenn set up shop in the infirmary slash library and wait. Glenn had worried a bit that people might not come and they’d have to go door-to-door at some point but he was wrong. Incredibly so. Starting at the midday lunch break people come in a steady stream. They are _eager_ to talk about themselves, about what they can do. Daryl writes their information down in his unsightly scrawl and lets Glenn do the talking.

Lorraine (age twenty-six, former retail worker) has killed five walkers and no people because she’s spent most of the past two years at Hilltop. She says she used to do costuming and can make new clothes from scratch and alter old ones. She just needs materials. She also offers to teach Glenn to knit, since according to her you don’t need to see to do it. It will give him something to do in the winter since the weather keeps them inside and Glenn can’t read like the rest can.

Isaiah(age fifty-four, former mechanic) doesn’t remember how many walkers he’s killed. He does remember the only person he’s killed; it was his mother. She was sick and told him to do it so that she wouldn’t slow him or his children down.

Riya (age thirty-seven, former librarian) has killed “at least a dozen” walkers and six people. Four were during the fight against the Saviors. Two had tried to rape her sister.

She takes an almost fanatical interest in Daryl when she realizes that he’s the guy staying at Paul’s trailer. She’s of the opinion that Paul is stingy with his book collection even though he’s nice enough to turn over anything relating to medicine or technology over to her. She begs Daryl to put in a good word. She also thinks runners should try for a small university eighty or so miles from here; its library could still be untouched. Books are the most important resource in this new world; medical textbooks, books on chemistry, engineering, and general sciences. Preserve the knowledge of the old world.

“I think she has a point,” Glenn says when Riya the former librarian leaves.

“I think she’s crazier than a rat in a tin shithouse.”

“Well, she is, even I could see that. But she’s not wrong about books being useful.” He drums his fingers against his desk and looks thoughtful.

Dante (age twenty-three, former maintenance worker and part-time student) has killed scores of walkers and at least ten people. Six were Saviors and four were people who tried to kill him or his companions. Daryl remembers him from the fight at Hilltop; the kid could hold his own. He is another person who asks Daryl about Paul.

“Ol’ Jesus is a good dude,” Dante says. He pronounces it the Spanish way-- _Haysoos_ , “He’s the one who found me and brought me here, did you know that? Brought a lot of people here.”

“That right,” Daryl says.

“Went out looking for people to trade with. Found you. Made the deals to get rid of the Saviors. We owe him a lot, you know.”

Glenn has gotten bad at controlling his facial expressions now that he can’t see anyone else’s. So Daryl has no trouble reading just how amused he is during this conversation. When Dante leaves Daryl reaches over to wave his middle finger in Glenn’s face.

“I know you’re flipping me off,” Glenn says cheerfully.

It goes on and on. Daryl’s patience has limits—quite a few of them—and by the end of the day he crutches for Paul’s trailer as fast as he can, not even bothering to pause so he can glare in response to all the “Hey Daryl!” and “Afternoon, Mr Dixon!” type shouts he gets. _This is just the first day_ , Daryl thinks glumly.

****************

Daryl is dreaming and for once it’s not an unpleasant one. Just odd. In this dream Paul Rovia is stretched out face down on the bed next to him. He’s on top of the covers and still wearing his clothes. Paul hasn’t even bothered to kick off his muddy boots; just hung them over the end of the bed. Daryl can tell by his slow, steady breathing that he is _out._ There’s a careful distance between them but Daryl can still feel the heat of his body and smell him. It’s a strong smell of horse and sweat that should be disgusting but isn’t. It’s vital and alive above anything else. Instead of startled or uncomfortable about his space being invaded Daryl just feels warm and safe and content. This feeling chases him down into sleep that is dark and dreamless.

The sound of running water snaps Daryl awake hours later. He jerks up in bed and looks around wildly—he’s alone in Paul’s bedroom but someone is in the bathroom. Daryl spots Paul’s coat and muddy boots on the floor next to the bed and his dream from last night comes back to him. He rubs his eyes and struggles to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

Now he can hear Paul’s voice drifting through the wall. Still confused as all hell Daryl grabs one of his crutches from the floor and leavers himself out of bed. He hobbles to the bathroom and pauses to take a breath outside the door. Here Daryl can make out Paul’s voice clearer and he realizes that the motherfucker sings in the shower. He’s got a good voice, low and pleasing. Daryl listens for a few seconds, leaning against his crutch.

“ _Your sister sees the future_

_Like your mother and yourself_

_You don’t know how to read or write_

_There’s no books upon your shelf_

_Your pleasure knows no limits_

_And your voice is like a meadow lark_

_But your heart is like the ocean, mysterious and dark…”_

Daryl raps his knuckles against the door and Paul’s voice trails away. The water tapers off and in a few seconds Paul opens the door a crack. It’s only a few inches so Daryl can only see one small sliver of him. He’s got a towel around his waist and water is running down chest. Daryl gets a brief impression of dark hair at his stomach and of a deep groove above his hip where his thigh and abdominal muscles meet. Daryl snaps his gaze to a point just above Paul’s shoulder. “So I see you came back.”

Paul actually looks a little flustered, “Yeah. Sorry about last night,” he says, “I’d been awake for about thirty some hours and didn’t have it in me to clear off a bunk so it was next to you or on the floor.”

“There’s a couch,” Daryl says, although he’s not really angry or annoyed. Just a little puzzled at his non reaction to having someone come into his room while he was asleep and vulnerable.

Paul just gives him a look, “Please. I’d take the floor first. Don’t worry, your virtue was safe. I was dead to the world as soon as I got horizontal.”

“Shithead,” Daryl grumbles. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Paul’s skin is flush from the hot water and strands of wet hair cling to his face.

“One day I will win your love and admiration. For right now I need some more time under hot water before I can even begin to feel human,” he starts to close the door then stops, “Oh, I brought a letter from Carol for you. It’s on the kitchen counter.” Paul shuts the door and a few seconds the water is running again and he can hear Paul’s voice, “ _One more cup of coffee for the road…one more cup of coffee ‘fore I go_ …”

Daryl shakes his head and crutches into the kitchen to read Carol’s letter. It’s two pages worth of stuff— mostly detailing the first few months of her life at the Kingdom and describing the people who live there. “King” Ezekiel—or Zeke, as she writes more than once— continue to make her feel welcome. The tiger continues to hate her. The last paragraph of the letter makes him squirm with embarrassment as she tells him how proud she is for helping Glenn and what a good man he is.

Daryl has just finished reading the letter when Paul emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his shoulders. He’s wearing grey slacks and an old white t-shirt a few sizes too big for him. His skin is still damp so it clings in a few places despite this. “I really miss coffee,” he says, toweling his wet hair.

“Mmm,” Daryl grumbles. He carefully folds up Carol’s letter and puts it in the pocket of his vest.

“Still not going to let me get a word in edgewise, I see,” Paul says, smiling in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Is there any food left?”

Daryl nods; and Paul goes to the cupboards to root around. He has to stand directly behind Daryl’s chair to do this, he’s only inches away and Daryl catches a whiff of the clean smell of soap. He remembers his not-dream of Paul in bed next to him and shifts uncomfortably. Thankfully after less than a minute Paul emerges with a some of those disgusting homemade survival bars that are all the rage in Hilltop and goes to stand opposite of Daryl.

“Did you enjoy your stay at Chez Rovia?” he asks, tearing into his food.

“You have annoying neighbors. And your laundry gal is terrifying.”

Paul’s mouth is full so his laugh is more of a snort. He swallows and says, “She’d kick your ass if she heard you call her my ‘laundry gal.’ She’s tough; her grandson said that she once tore the head off a walker and used it to beat another to death to save him.”

“I believe it. Said you owed her some extra batteries.”

“I think she’ll be very happy, then. My run was profitable,” Paul finishes his first survival bar and starts on a second one; actually taking the time to chew instead of just inhaling it.

“Where’d you go? Still a secret?”

“I just said that to be obnoxious,” Paul says, confirming what Daryl already suspected, “Went looking for a trace of the rogue Saviors. Didn’t find any. Did find a new settlement, though.”

Daryl goes still at that bit of news, “What are they like?”

“Not like the Saviors, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Paul answers, “It’s a place called Oceanside, on a little island in the Chesapeake. They live on the water mostly, fishing and such. Plus they do supply runs up and down the coast. As soon as I think I can muster up enough energy I’m going to give a full report to Maggie, if you want to come with. Save me the trouble of repeating myself.”

“Glenn wants to work on the census,” he grumbles. They’ve been at the thing for a week and they’re almost done, thank god. Paul gives him a questioning look and Daryl explains.

Paul nods thoughtfully and says, “That’s smart,” he stares off into space for a bit, thinking, “We never had time for that sort of thing before, with the Saviors breathing down our neck. Just scrambling for food and supplies. So what questions do you ask, exactly?”

“You don’t need to answer them, you’re already doing your job,” Daryl says, but starts to ask them anyway, “Name?”

“Paul James Rovia.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two, or..” He furrows his brows, “Wait, I had a birthday recently. October 7th. So thirty-three.”

“What’d you do before the outbreak?”

“Cashier at Trader Joe’s.”

“What the fuck is Trader Joe’s?”

“Grocery store for hipsters who can’t afford Whole Foods,” Paul answers.

“You were a grocery boy,” Daryl says. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; after all Glenn had been delivering pizzas before the outbreak. As for Daryl an unemployed drifter couldn’t really look down his nose at a grocery boy, could he?

Paul’s lips curl into a little smile, “Don’t knock it. The pay was decent and I even got some benefits. Plus not many companies were willing to hire convicted felons so my options were limited.”

It takes a second to realize what Paul’s saying and when he does he just stares at him. “The hell you say. _You_? That…” Daryl trails off, a lot of things about Paul clicking into place. He’s thinking of the deft way Paul had with picking locks and pockets, how fucking _quiet_ he could be, and the way he could melt into the shadows. Daryl remembers first night in Alexandria when he had climbed out a three story window and proceeded to break into the armory, Rick’s bedroom, and god knew where else. Then there was the shit he pulled when he busted them out of the Sanctuary. “That actually explains a lot. Burglary?”

“Easy guess,” Paul says. He shifts on his feet, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t go spreading that around. I know it doesn’t matter much anymore, but…” he shrugs, “But I’d rather keep that one to myself.”

Daryl thinks it would be a nice bit of revenge for having to spend the past few weeks explaining to every other person he interviewed that no, he is not gay nor is he fucking Paul “Jesus” Rovia. But he understands Paul’s reluctance to advertise the unsavory bits of his past _before_. After everyone has gotten at least a little dirty if they’re still alive by this point so it’s excusable.

“Were there any more questions?” Paul asks.

“Just three.”

“Shoot.”

“How many walkers have you killed?” Daryl asks.

“God knows. A lot.”

Daryl nods; he expected as much, “How many people have you killed?”

Paul’s quiet for a moment, “See previous answer.”

“Why?”

Paul is quiet for even longer. He turns to look out the kitchen window, “You know why I killed the Saviors I did. Because it was them or me, or this community,” he pauses, “That’s why I killed the others. Except for one; him I killed because he had it fucking coming.”

He says the last bit as bland and emotionless as a newscaster reporting on the weather. Daryl wonders how many people could tell just how much rage was lurking just under the surface. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll make a note of it later.

“Not going to ask me what he did to deserve it?” Paul asks. He sounds only mildly curious.

“How long were you out there before you found this place?” is what Daryl asks instead.

“Seven or eight months, give or take. It’s kinda hazy. You understand,” Paul says.

Daryl does understand. The winter they spent moving around after Hershel’s farm was destroyed was much the same for Daryl. So was the journey to Alexandria—he knows what happened but when he thinks about it bits are like reading about something that happened to somebody else. “If you was out there that long I’ll take your word for it. Don’t need the details.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Paul says, studying Daryl’s face. There’s a silence that should be uncomfortable but isn’t. Paul finishes up his last survival bar and licks his fingers clean. After a few minutes he says, “Well I’m as energized as I’m going to get for the day. Time to go hunt down Miss Greene. If you’re going to meet Glenn now we can head over together.”

Daryl actually hadn’t planned on going this early but he agrees anyway. Paul goes to put on his boots and coat while Daryl does the same. They leave together; Paul goes first. He doesn’t bother with the steps, just jumps down and gazes out at the Hilltop while Daryl carefully makes his way down. “I’ll get my shit out of your place when I’m done with Glenn,” Daryl says when he rejoins him.

Paul looks confused for a second, “Oh. You know you can stay if you want,” he says.

“Thought you liked your privacy,” Daryl says.

“You don’t strike me as a man who will be all up in my business. More’s the pity,” he sees Daryl rolling his eyes, “Fuck, I just guaranteed you’d say no, didn’t I?”

“Mmmm,” Daryl grumbles, turning the idea over in his mind. Paul’s fuckery aside he can’t deny it’s been peaceful these past few weeks having a place he can go to just be alone.

“It’s like I said earlier,” Paul says, “I feel guilty with it just being me taking up that whole thing. I just need to clear off a bunk so I’ve got a place to sleep—”

“Fuck off, I ain’t stealing your bed.”

“Your leg—”

“Is getting better,” Daryl interrupts. Dr Carson thinks in another week or two the cast can come off. He’ll still need the crutches and a leg brace for a few more weeks after that but he won’t be dragging around this lump of plaster anymore. He can hardly wait to scratch his leg any time he has the urge.

“So is that a yes?” Paul asks. Daryl glances sideways at him; Paul is looking placidly out at the Hilltop grounds again like he couldn’t care less what Daryl decided.

“Sure,” Daryl says, shifting on his crutches and heading toward Barrington house.

Paul follows, saying, “Fantastic! You already know about the house rules not to smoke inside or fuck with my books. Other rules: No blood inside! If you catch something you have to gut it out where we can hose it down. I get the shower first every morning, no exceptions. Oh, and you can’t wear shirts in the living room.”

Daryl thrusts a crutch out to trip him but Paul jumps over it nimbly and laughs. “My house rules,” Daryl grumbles, “Cut that shit out.”

Paul sighs theatrically, “You can’t blame me for trying, Mr Dixon,” Paul says, wheeling around and walking backwards so that he can look at Daryl while they talk. His face turns serious, and he says, “Honestly, it’s fun jerking your chain, and if you say the word I’d be happy to jerk other things, but house rules. Won’t subject you to that. In the house,” his face is still serious but his eyes have that shit-eating glint to them. “Other disclaimers: I don’t sleep well, and never have. Sometimes I go out into the living room and exercise, if you find it bothers you I’ll go outside. And as you found out today I sing in the shower, if _that_ bothers you then deal with it.”

Daryl sighs, “I must be out of my danged mind.” Although it’s all talk. He can’t help it; he likes the asshole, even if Paul’s fuckery can be too much to take at times.

“Everyone is these days,” Paul says, “Take the damn bed tonight, I’ll be out all day and when I get in I’ll clean out a bunk. I swear I won’t crawl in with you again, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Daryl glares at him but Paul ignores it and acts as though he has agreed. He really must be out of his mind for agreeing to be _roommates_ with Paul Rovia.

They’re passing the gardens and they spot Maggie on her knees in the dirt surrounded by a several Hilltop residents. She’s gesturing at the plants and they are absorbed on her every word.

“Look at that,” Paul says with approval, “Gregory would never lower himself to go till the soil with the peasants.” He watches Maggie for a bit then continues, “I’ll see you later, if you’re still awake. I’ll be out most of the day, got a lot of catching up to do.” He turns on his heel and heads toward Maggie. When she spots him her face lights up and she jumps to her feet to hug him. Daryl can hear her say _I missed you_! They break apart and she slings an arm over his shoulders and he wraps one of his own around her waist. Daryl realizes she’s taller than he is. He can hear their voices as they move away; not the exact words but the tone. Paul says something that makes Maggie throw her head back and laugh.

Daryl is turning to head toward Barrington house when he realizes that there is something in his jeans pocket. He did not put anything in his pocket this morning or any morning before so there’s really only one way something could have ended up there. He steels himself and fishes the mystery object out while regretting his decision to stay with Paul for any length of time.

He holds it in his palm and sees it’s a little silver necklace. The pendant shaped like an upside down teardrop with the right side a jagged line. Printed on it in lurid pink enamel is:

_Be_

_Fri_

_For_

It takes him a second but when he realizes what it is he bursts out laughing. “Crazy sumbitch,” he mutters to himself. He glances up at Paul and Maggie again. Paul’s talking to her about something serious if his expression is anything to go by, but as if he senses Daryl’s stare he glances up and their eyes meet. Daryl’s too far away to tell for sure but he thinks it’s a good bet that he has that shit-eating glint in his eyes. For the first time it makes Daryl feel fond rather than homicidal.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) According to the comic book Hilltop has 200 residents and enough space to grow food for them all and give half of it to Negan's people. I've given up trying to figure out the exact size of the place.
> 
> 2) The necklace Paul gave Daryl looks a lot like the left half of this one: http://tinypic.com/r/24g4owm/9


	7. Now

During the War an army made of Hilltop, Kingdom, and Alexandria survivors stormed the Sanctuary. They shot out every single window and threw in firecrackers and flares creating a cacophony of noise and lights that was visible for miles around.

While they did this a team led by Paul, Glenn, and Rosita was gathering together a massive swarm of walkers and herding them toward the Sanctuary. When the noise started all they needed to do was peel off and run for safety. Few walkers followed them, the racket from the Sanctuary had them entranced. By the time the army had spent its munitions and retreated the herd of incoming walkers rivaled the one that almost destroyed Alexandria. And that was just the first wave. They overran the Sanctuary gates and kept the Saviors penned inside for days.

As he walks through the grounds Daryl sees that the windows have been replaced or boarded up and the ground swept clean. In addition it looks like every available bit of ground has been cleared and plowed for growing space. Scattered throughout are cooking fires with people gathered around laughing and chatting. It’s not much different than the Hilltop, a thought which disquiets Daryl.

When the Saviors spot the group being led through the grounds they go quiet. Daryl and Michonne get more fearful looks as they’re led inside. Rick gets almost as many.

Dwight has taken over the room on the upper floor where Negan once stored his harem of “wives”. The guard ushers them inside. Dwight’s waiting for them, flanked by two other Saviors Daryl doesn’t recognize. One’s a girl with brown skin, a shaved head, and tattoos of vines on the scalp. The other is an older guy with silver-white hair and black eyebrows who despite his age looks likes he can still throw down.

“Rick,” Dwight says, looking warily from him to Michonne and then at Daryl. Dwight pales at the sight of him. For good reason; Daryl’s fingers actually twitch as if they’re eager to wrap around the scrawny fucker’s neck. Last time Carol had been there to pull Daryl off but not before he’d choked Dwight until his lips turned blue.

“Dwight,” Rick answers, extending his hand. Dwight takes it while tracking Daryl out of the corner of his eyes. Rick looks at the other two Saviors and introduces himself, Michonne, and Daryl.

“I’m Laura, and this is Donnie,” shaved head girl says. She’s noticed Dwight’s unease and is glaring at them with hostility.

“What brings you here?” Dwight asks.

“We’re looking for Jesus,” Rick says, “He’s been missing for days.”

Dwight looks confused, “He hasn’t been here in over a month. I don’t—“

“Someone grabbed him right at your doorstep,” Daryl growls, “Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Rick turns and gives Daryl a warning look.

Rick turns back to Dwight and continues, “We found what was left of his horse and the leavings of whoever got him.”

“We think it could be Ogden’s group,” Michonne adds, “Looks there were at least five of them, well armed.”

Dwight goes even paler, something Daryl wouldn’t have thought possible, “What makes you so sure it’s him and not some bandits passing through?”

“We’re not sure,” Rick admits.

“But Daryl’s right,” Michonne chimes in, “It was right at your doorstep. Someone must have seen something and if they didn’t then whoever took Jesus knows the area enough to avoid being seen.”

“Do you think anyone here could be helping them?” Rick asks, “Someone who is still loyal to Negan—“

Before he can finish Laura snaps, “That’s a whole lot of nothing to go on. There’s no call to come here and throw around accusations. Nobody here is still loyal to Negan—“

“You keep tellin’ yourself that,” Daryl says with a snort.

The girl’s face darkens, “You don’t know what it was like to live here under him.”

“I believe I got my fill of that motherfucker’s hospitality,” Daryl spits back, “Her ‘n me both.” He jerks his head at Michonne. Rick shoots him another warning look and Daryl backs off; hands clenching into fists

“Laura—“ Dwight says.

“We’re not here to accuse anyone,” Rick says.

“Laura, even if they are accusing us we should take this seriously,” says Donnie before she can do anything, his first words since they showed up.

“Yes,” Dwight says, then to Rick, “Do you really think it’s them?”  

“I think it’s possible. Very possible. That’s enough for me.”

“Ok,” Dwight says, “Ok. What do you need?”

“I need to talk to anybody you’ve had out on runs these past few weeks.”

“How is that not accusing us?” Laura says, “You must think _somebody_ here is working with them.”

“‘You can’t blame us for wondering if he’ll stab us in the back,” Daryl says and looks at Dwight.

Dwight’s pale cheeks have dark red spots on them now. He stands in front of Daryl, and snaps “Look. I’m trying to _help_ . This whole community partnership is working out for everyone here. No one wants those fuckers back here less than I do. Besides all that I actually _like_ Paul, he’s a good man—“

Daryl’s fist lashes out and Dwight goes staggering back, blood pouring from his nose. The room erupts; Laura shouts and lunges at him at the same time Rick grabs his shoulders and jerks him away, telling him to back off and cool down. Daryl has no plans on listening to him; hearing that walking stack of shit using Paul’s name in such a familiar way had been enough to snap the frayed mess of Daryl’s self control. Paul was Jesus to everyone but Daryl and a few select others, he didn’t have the fucking _right._

Laura has drawn a gun and Dwight is yelling at her to put it down. She doesn’t listen but it distracts her enough for Michonne to dart forward and knock it out of her hands.

Rick is in Daryl’s face, “You,” he says, “Outside.”

“Fuck that—“

“ _Now_.” Rick gets right up close and stares him in the eye, “You aren’t helping. Go outside and get your shit together.”

Daryl mashes his lips together and drops his eyes. He shaking with rage and fear and helplessness, “Rick—“

“Not another goddamned word,” Rick says. He’s not yelling; he doesn’t have to. Daryl takes in a deep breath, gives a jerky nod and does as he’s told.

**********

Daryl leans against the brick wall outside of Dwight’s office and breathes hard. He wants to go back in there and stomp Dwight into a bloody mess. He wants to burn this fucking building to the ground with all the Saviors in it. He wants to go back out to the field where they found Paul’s horse and hunt every inch of the surrounding countryside. He wants to go back to the morning he left Hilltop and make a different decision.

His heart gradually slows and he regains some control of himself. Much as he hates Dwight and would like to see him dead he knows that the other man was telling the truth. It was in the motherfucker’s best interest for Negan to stay rotting in his jail cell; Dwight was probably right after Rick on Negan’s murder list.

At the very least you could rely on the man to look out for his own self-interest, Daryl thinks sourly. The memory of Dwight trying to convince Daryl and Michonne that he was on their side comes to him.

_The door opened one day (he’s not sure which one, he thinks the it might be day eight)and it wasn’t one of the regular guards who came in. It was Dwight. Daryl froze at the sight of him then was on his feet and at the length of his chain so fast the other man nearly tripped over his own feet springing back._

_The two men stood regarding each other, Daryl quivering with tension and rage and Dwight looking pale and even leaner than normal._

_“Look, I need to be quick, they can’t know I’ve been here. They’re already suspicious enough,” Dwight said in a rush. “I know you don’t trust me, you have every right not to trust me, but I’m here to help.”_

_Daryl stared at him in disbelief, “How fucking stupid do you think I am?”_

_“I got the drop on you three times, so do you really want an answer to that question?”_

_Daryl lunged, rage clouding his vision. His chain rattled across the floor, it was as tight as it would go, Daryl considered dropping flat and trying to grab Dwight’s ankles, one armed and everything. Dwight must have seen this on his face, because he took another step away, his back was to the metal door now. He turned and looked anxiously out of the slot, then back at Daryl, raising conciliatory hands._

_“I’m here with a message from Rick, he’s working on a way to get you out, I’m going to help him.”_

_Daryl still said nothing, just stalked back and forth as far as the length of chain would allow him._

_“I have a message from Carol, too. In case you didn’t trust me.”_

_Daryl froze at the sound of her name. Carl had told Michonne that she was missing and that Rick had gone out to look for her with Morgan while Daryl was busy traipsing around like a jackass looking for the walking rectum in front of him._

_“I saw her, I talked with her,” Dwight paused for breath, then said, “She told me to tell you that you were right and she was wrong. That ‘we still aren’t ashes.’”_

_Daryl let out a shaky breath. He remembered that conversation with her, right before Beth died and they left Atlanta for DC. He stared at Dwight long and hard, anger and mistrust not leaving, “So you spoke to her. Why should I trust you?”_

_“Because your friend isn’t stupid,” Dwight said, exasperated, “She trusted me enough to tell me that stuff.”_

_“Bullshit. Maybe you talked her ‘n Rick into it. Hell, maybe you even meant it. All I know is I tried to fucking help you even after you put a gun in my face, and you robbed me, then killed my friend, and helped kill another. All that after you said you was tired of kneelin’. You gutless coward, I don’t believe for a second you’re willing to help anyone but yourself. Where’s your wife? She back to kneelin’ too?”_

_That last sentence hit the mark like a well thrown dagger and Daryl watched with mean satisfaction as Dwight went white with anger and took a half step forward. Daryl tensed to lunge at him, but Dwight stopped and stood breathing heavily and Daryl could_ see _the effort it was taking him to get a hold of himself.”_

 _“Yes,” he finally snarled out, “Her and me, we’re both back to_ kneeling _.  And I did all those things, but I also saved_ your _fucking life.”_

_The only reason Daryl didn’t laugh in his face was because he was too amazed at how brazen Dwight was, “How do you figure?”_

_“Do you really think Negan chose who to introduce to Lucille randomly? That’s bullshit. He went after the guy he thought looked the toughest. You were never an option, looking like you were about to keel over any second.”_

_“Well ain’t you just a fuckin’ hero.”_

_“Look, I get you don’t trust me. If it means anything I’m sorry, and I’m sorry about your friend, that was an accident-”_

_“Don’t you fucking dare,” Daryl snarled. If Dwight tried to apologize or justify Denise then Daryl_ will _kill him, even if he has to chew off his own foot to get free._

 _Dwight snapped his mouth shut and glared at a point somewhere over Daryl’s shoulder, “Rick wouldn’t tell me how they’re planning to bust you out, he didn’t trust me_ that _much. Just told me that you need to be ready for when it happens.” He waited, and when he saw Daryl wasn’t going to answer him he sighed and walked out, clanging the door shut behind him._

_Daryl stood there quivering until he heard the door to Michonne’s cell open, then he stumbled over to the pipe gap to listen in. He couldn’t hear much, Michonne and Dwight spoke in low tones. After a few minutes they both went silent, then Daryl heard her door clang shut as well. Then the clack of Dwight’s boots against the floor, fading off into the distance._

_Daryl went to the gap in the wall and called out Michonne’s name._

_“What did he say to you?” Daryl asked as soon as she arrived._

_“That Rick is working on getting us out,” Michonne said._

_“We can’t trust him.”_

_“I don’t trust him,” Michonne answered, “I trust Rick. Dwight told me something only Rick would know. So at the very least he’s met with Rick and has something planned.”_

_“He’s a selfish little shit,” Daryl snarls._

_“Maybe. But did you see his face? Negan did that to him. It may very well be in his best interest to get rid of Negan. Besides,” Michonne says, sounding blackly amused, “We don’t really have a choice, do we?”_

Daryl is pulled out of this memory when the door opens and Michonne and Laura come out. The latter throws Daryl a poisonous look and stomps off.

“Come on,” Michonne says.

“What’s going on?”

“Rick and Dwight are going to talk to some folks, see what they can find out.”

“I want in. Let me talk to a few of ‘em.”

“That’s not going to happen. You’re going to go with me to get the others so they can come in and rest while Rick takes care of it.”

“That’s bullshit—”

“Rick used to be a cop; this was his _job_. As for you— you’re not thinking straight. You flying off the handle isn’t going to help anybody and might scare off someone who could know something.”

She’s right, he knows she’s right, but it’s still a hard thing to swallow. He grits his teeth and glares at the floor.

She touches his wrist very lightly and he looks into her face, “Besides,” she says, and her voice is soft, “This place is messing with my head. I need to get outside for a few minutes. Guessing you do too.”

She’s right about that as well.

*************

They’ve set up camp in what was once the factory’s loading dock. It’s out of the way and most importantly the ancient metal doors aren’t so rusted they can’t be slid open. The night is mild enough that it’s still comfortable and makes all of them feel less trapped. The Saviors might be their allies now but the war is hard to forget and Daryl isn’t the only one who can’t shake the feeling of being in enemy territory.

Despite this feeling they’ve been treated well. They’ve been given food; shown where they could go and have a wash if they were so inclined; and were provided with blankets and a few camping cots. Not enough for everyone but enough so that if they slept in shifts they could all get a few hours’ sleep.

Daryl isn’t going to be able to sleep anytime soon, if at all. Nor does he feel like talking. So instead of staying with the others he heads outside. Paces back and forth in front of the loading dock door and tries to clear his head. He wishes he had a cigarette.

He’s not at it for long when he realizes he isn’t alone out here. Maggie is just outside the loading dock door leaning against the side of the building. Her arms folded and her head is bowed. She seems to sense his stare, and raises her head.

The whole evening she’s been quiet and tense. Whenever Daryl meets her eyes he can see that she is still _pissed_ at him. Now is not an exception. Daryl wants to leave her be, but her eyes are red and he thinks she may have been crying.

“You ok?” he asks.

She says nothing, just looks at him. Her expression is completely blank. He thinks she’s not going to answer but she says, “You didn’t see Glenn at his worst,” she turns away from him and stares at the Sanctuary grounds. Daryl looks at her profile and tries to puzzle out where that had come from.

Before he can Maggie continues, “When it sunk into him that he was blind and would be that way forever. He was so angry,” her voice trembles but doesn’t break, “Some of the things he said to me… they were _cruel_. I knew he didn’t mean it; he was just trying to push me away. But it hurt so much to hear. Hurt even worse to see him like that. Tara was still a mess over what happened to Denise, and Carol was in the infirmary nonstop. You I thought were just going to die. Everyone but Carol did.”

Neither Glenn nor Maggie have told him about this. He knew they were cautious and careful with each other the first few months, with little of their previous warmth. Daryl tries to imagine Glenn being deliberately cruel to Maggie—not lashing out in anger and hitting any target nearby— and fails.

Maggie isn’t done talking, “Jesus was the _only_ person I could talk to. Sometimes I didn’t even talk to him, I just would go put my head on his shoulder and cry my eyes out. I couldn’t let anyone else see it, I had that whole place to look after and needed to be strong,” her voice falters, “He didn’t tell me everything was going work out fine. Just that there was no reason it _couldn’t_. I wouldn’t have made it those first few weeks without him. I told that to him once, he wouldn’t hear of it. Said it was all me.”

She turns around slowly and stares Daryl in the face, “I don’t know what went down between the two of you, if you had a fight or what. And I don’t care. But if something’s happened to him,” she stops and breathes hard, nostrils flaring.

“I know it will be my fault,” Daryl says. His voice is unsteady.

“No, it’s going to be the fault of whoever attacked him. I was going to say that whatever stupid thing you did is going to be the last thing of you he’ll know. And you’re going to have to live with that.”

Maggie couldn’t have hurt him any worse if she had taken her knife out and gutted him with it. He doesn’t respond, even if he could think of something to say his throat is frozen. She doesn’t have anymore to say to him. He stands there for a moment before walking away. He doesn’t have a particular destination in mind, just a need to move.

He walks until he can’t anymore—he’s reached out outside fencing and smacks it with frustration. Leans against it and closes his eyes.

He smells the walker before he hears it. His eyes fly open and he jumps several feet back just as it crashes into the other side of the fence. It doesn’t stop moving, just pushes mindlessly against the fence and clutches at the chain links.

Daryl stares at it for a long time. It used to be a woman, it’s bloated and blackened now, its eyes white and dumb. His knife is in his hand without conscious thought and he lunges forward. His aim is perfect, his knife goes through the center of one link and into the walker’s eye. It jerks, dead fingers opening and closing then it goes limp. Daryl pulls his knife free and it slides down against the fence.

Daryl is breathing harshly. The weight of the entire day bears down on him. Maggie telling him Paul was missing. Hunting the fields to find him, finding evidence that someone had taken or killed him. Having to come back to this _fucking_ place. It’s too much; he slumps down to his knees.

He’s there for a long time.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to update this on at least a weekly basis but I just couldn't make this chapter work. Still not totally happy with how it turned out but I'm done messing with it. Good news is Chapter 8 is done but for some editing, should have it up later tonight or tomorrow morning.


	8. Then

Daryl wakes from a night of broken rest and hellish nightmares to the sound of the shower running and Paul’s voice drifting through the wall:

 

_ “Red wine and sleeping pills _

_ Help me get back to your arms _

_ Cheap sex and sad films _

_ Help me get where I belong-” _

 

Daryl pounds a fist against the wall and hollers, “Lighten the fuck up! Christ, don’t you know any Skynyrd or anything?”

There’s nothing but the sound of running water for a bit, then:

 

_ “Well, I used to wake the mornin' _

_ Before the rooster crowed _

_ Searchin' for soda bottles _

_ To get myself some dough-” _

 

Daryl relaxes back against his pillow and closes his eyes. Paul’s voice can be soothing when he’s not going on one of his grimmer tangents.

In the weeks since he moved in he’s found to his surprise that Paul is actually an excellent roommate. So far he’s followed the “no fuckery in the house” rule and he wasn’t lying about being out more often than not. He leaves most mornings while Daryl is still in bed and doesn’t come back until Daryl has settled in for the night. 

He  _ hears _ him every morning; Daryl’s bunk shares a wall with the bathroom. Said wall is only a little thicker than tissue paper so when Paul sings in the shower Daryl hears every damn word. It’s his morning wake up call—the sound of water beating down and Paul’s voice rising above it. The man showers like someone who isn’t relying on jury rigged portable water heaters and scavenged propane tanks. He’s like a cat; he can’t tolerate being dirty if he doesn’t have to. Most of the time his showers only last for a few songs but one morning had been an entire fucking concert in there lasting close to twenty minutes or so. So far Daryl lain awake in bed and listened no matter how long he goes on. 

Paul wraps up “The Ballad of Curtis Loewe’ and not long after the water shuts off. Daryl hears him moving around in the bathroom and decides to get up himself. He snags his leg brace out from under his bunk and straps it on. He’s been free of that hated lump of plaster for ten days and he still is excited to be able to pull himself up and limp around with only the help of a cane. His leg feels stronger every day and before long he’ll be able to ditch even the cane.

“Mornin’,” Paul says when Daryl emerges from his room. “Want breakfast?” he says, gesturing at the bowl in front of him. He’s eating what looks like the standard Hilltop porridge that Daryl thinks tastes like the inside of an ass. Still it’s filling so he nods yes. 

Daryl eats a few bites and asks, “What are you up to today?”

“Going on a quick run with Tara,” Paul answers, “Just for the day. There’s a little subdivision a few miles out that I haven’t hit up. Don’t expect to find much good stuff but there’s still a lot that can be used as raw materials. You? Are you still working on being Glenn’s Girl Friday?”

“I’ve been replaced,” Daryl says without rancor. Charlie (age eleven, former elementary student) has killed five walkers. All were because she was protecting her little brother after their parents died. During her interview she overheard Daryl grousing about taking notes and volunteered her services.  _ You have very ugly handwriting _ , she had told Daryl. Hers is neat cursive with the occasional “i” dotted with a heart. 

In addition to being able to write legibly she is far more mobile than Daryl is, even after he got his cast off. Glenn’s been going door-to-door among the trailers to ask follow-up questions to any residents who have caught his attention. 

“So you’re just going to lounge around here for the day?”

“Your ex has me scheduled for another torture session.”

Paul snorts out a laugh. “Alex is a marshmallow. Don’t be such a pussy.” 

Daryl grumbles at that. Underneath his cheerful veneer Alex is a complete fucking sadist if what he refers to as “physical therapy sessions” are any indication. Daryl’s had two since his cast came off and both times Alex got him on the floor and made him go through strengthening exercises until Daryl was sweaty and trembling and felt like he was dying.

Paul just looks at him with his eyes sparkling in amusement, “Well don’t tire yourself out too much. I gotta go; Tara’s waiting on me. I should be back before dark. Don’t wait up, hon.”

“Don’t forget to put the safety on your gun and accidentally shoot your dick off.”

“Not taking a gun, just my knives.”

“I can loan you one. Doesn’t have a safety, though.”

“You’re too kind. I’ll take my chances.”

************

On his way to Barrington house Daryl is spied by Miss Dina, who is sitting on the steps of her trailer with her washtub in front of her. The days have been chilly but today the sun is out and while not necessarily warm it’s not so cold she can’t do washing. She’s not the only one—quite a few people in Hilltop are taking advantage of the sun. The trailers are a maze of hanging sheets and clothing whipping in the wind.

“Mornin’,” he calls out, raising his hand.

“Don’t holler at me, get your butt over here.” Daryl limps over, leaning on his cane. “Where’s Jesus?” she asks when he gets to her. 

“On a run.”

“Again? He just got back,” she gives Daryl a judgmental look, as though it’s  _ his _ fault Paul isn’t around. 

“Just for the day,” Daryl answers, “He’ll be back by this afternoon. If you need something I can tell him when he gets in—”

“I got a present for him,” she says, and heaves herself to her feet. She stretches and rubs her lower back, “Getting too old for this bullshit,” she mutters as she wipes her wet and sudsy arms down with a spare cloth. “C’mon inside.”

Despite the fact that at least five other people call this trailer home it is far neater and more orderly than the one he shares with Paul. It lacks the heaps of books crammed onto every available surface. Speaking of, the present Miss Dina has for Paul turns out to be another book— _ A Brief History of Time.  _

_ “ _ Where’d you get this?”

“Someone used it as payment for their laundry. Not my sort of thing, but I took it because I thought Jesus would like it.”

“Thought you weren’t one for charity,” Daryl says as he takes it. 

She snorts, “He brought me back over fifty batteries, he’s already paid for his laundry from now until rapture and then some. That’s just a thank you present.”

“What’ve you got that eats so many batteries?” Daryl asks without thinking. It might be something personal, something she doesn’t want to discuss.

He needn’t have worried; she looks delighted to be asked. “I’ll show you,” she says, “Wait here.” She heads back into one of the trailers bedrooms and emerges with a battered camcorder. One that looks like it was old  _ before.  _ She powers it on and messes with the controls. “Come look here Daryl, come see my baby,” she says. 

He peers over her shoulder at the view frame. The recording starts, at first it’s an empty stage in a theater then a young woman comes out. She looks just as tall as Miss Dina, but when the camera zooms in he can see she’s softer and prettier. She looks terrified, like she’s about to throw up, a look Daryl can’t imagine on Miss Dina. She gives a shaky smile and starts to sing, her nervousness fading. It’s an opera song of some sort, something in Italian. Opera is the last genre Daryl Dixon would choose to listen to and the camera’s playback doesn’t have the best sound. Daryl can still tell that the young woman’s voice is extraordinary. By the time she reaches the end of the song the nervous young woman has been transformed, she’s a warrior, a valkyrie. The last note trails off and the theater erupts with applause, it sound tinny and distant on the camcorder’s speakers. 

Miss Dina is beaming, her eyes glued to the screen, one hand failing to cover her smile. “Isn’t she wonderful? Sometimes I can’t believe she came from me. She was hired by the San Francisco Opera right out of school just before everything happened. I was so proud!”

Daryl doesn’t ask what happened to her. He knows Miss Dina lives with her grandson, a boy about Carl’s age and no other family members. He’s pretty sure the grandson is her son’s son. Her daughter is most likely dead, and even if she isn’t if she was in San Francisco Miss Dina will never see her again. Daryl wonders how often she watches this five minute little clip on the shitty view screen. Wonders how many batteries she’s gone through. 

She reluctantly powers down the camcorder,“Anyway,” she says and gestures at the book, “You give that to Jesus and tell him thank you again from me. You bein’ sweet to him?”

Daryl sighs. Most of Hilltop seems to have gotten the memo that he and Paul are just roommates but there are still a few holdouts. He decides it’s not worth the effort to correct her and answers, “When he deserves it.” 

She’s not impressed, “Hmmph. That boy always deserves it. Not many around like him anymore. You best be good to him or I’m not the only one who will kick your butt.” 

********************

When they’re finished with today’s torture session Daryl is too weak to get to his feet and needs Alex’s help. The big guy gets him settled in a chair and brings him a glass of water. 

“You’re getting better, we should meet again next week,” Alex says, as if he’s describing a trip to fucking Disneyland, “You’re doing fantastic.” Daryl thinks Alex the most annoying person he’s ever met. 

Alex goes to fetch Daryl his cane and spies the book Miss Dina gave him. He picks it up to examine it. “Didn’t know you were a Stephen Hawking fan,” Alex says as he flips through  _ A Brief History of Time. _

“It’s a gift for Paul,” Daryl says in between gulps of water. 

“Ah,” Alex says, “That makes sense. Good choice.”

“It’s not from me,” Daryl explains quickly. Surely  _ Alex _ doesn’t have any misconceptions about Daryl and Paul’s relationship? Fuck, maybe he does and that’s the reason he delights in tormenting Daryl during their ninety minutes of hell masquerading as PT. 

“Oh,” says Alex. His face is hard to read, “Well if he doesn’t have it already he’ll be glad to get it. Even if he does if it’s a different edition he’ll keep this one.”

“I couldn’t say if he has it,” Daryl says, “If he does who knows if he can find it in that mess.”

Alex laughs, “Oh no, he has a  _ system.  _ A weird, illogical one that only makes sense to him but still a system. Give him a title of a book and he knows if he has it and exactly where it is. I’ve seen him do it; it’s actually kinda creepy.” 

“Oh,” Daryl says, going back to his water. Of course Alex has been inside the trailer, Daryl saw the evidence of that in Paul’s nightstand. He doubted Paul just kicked Alex out when they were done fucking; Alex probably spent the night and woke in the morning to the sound of Paul singing in the shower. “I should get going,” Daryl says, although he has no place he needs to be, really. He’s just tired of being in Alex’s cheery presence. 

***************

He makes it to the front porch of Barrington house before he needs to sit down for a breather. His legs are still a little trembly and weak. He sits on the steps and watches the Hilltop grounds. It’s the close of the harvest time, the majority of the community is bringing in the last of the crops for the season. Winter isn’t far off. Paul has told him that the winters here are much different than the Georgia ones Daryl is used to. Here they get more than the occasional snow flurry once a year or ice storm once a decade. Last winter had been “pretty rough” according to Paul. Daryl believes it; a few nights recently have gotten close to freezing already. 

He is not out there long when he spies the gates opening. To his surprise Paul and Tara ride in. They’re incredible early; they shouldn’t be back for several hours at least. Paul has a box of some sort tucked under the arm not holding the reins; Daryl is too far away to see what it is. No one at the gates appears to be panicking or calling the alarm out but Daryl is still a little uneasy. The reasons for calling off a run early were rarely good. He heaves himself to his feet, leans against his cane, and heads toward the gates. 

Paul and Tara are heading for the stables, Paul spots him and waves. He waits for Tara to dismount her horse then hands her the box he’s been carrying so he can dismount himself. They don’t take take the horses inside or remove the gear, they’re too busy fussing over the box. 

“You’re early. What’ve you got there?” Daryl says when he’s within speaking distance.

“Something fucking awesome!” Tara says.

“She is not exaggerating,” Paul says, “Come and take a look.”

Daryl is almost to them when he hears high-pitched little mews coming from the box. He pauses and raises his eyebrows. Paul and Tara are both grinning in a way that makes them look all of eight years old.

“You brought me dinner,” Daryl says, “Mighty nice of ya.” He limps the last remaining distance to the pair of them. When Daryl takes a look inside the box he sees six fluffy little kittens wrapped up in an old sweater. They can’t be very old—they’re tiny and their ears are still little nubs on the sides of their heads.

“I will murder you,” Tara says, matter of fact.

“Never threaten a cat in front of a lesbian, Daryl,” Paul says.

“An offensive stereotype. But I am allowed to be a cliche in this one area,” Tara answers. She grins and looks happier than she has in a while. It’s infectious; the little guys  _ are _ cute. One seems bolder than the rest, he’s untangled from the sweater and toddles around the box on ungainly kitten feet. Daryl reaches in and scoops him up. He’s a tuxedo—black fur with white paws and bib. Little guy can fit in the palm of Daryl’s hand. He mews in fright and his needle claws pinch at Daryl’s skin.

“Hey now, it’s ok. Shh,” he murmurs and cups this other hand over the kitten then cradles it against his chest where it can feel his heartbeat. He rubs the top of its head gently until it relaxes and starts purring quietly. When he looks up Paul is staring at him, “What?”

“Nothing,” Paul says. He looks a little flustered. 

“We found them in one of the abandoned houses—Mama cat was there, but she was dead,” explains Tara, “Poor little guys, they’re lucky we found them. They were making a hell of a racket.”

“They’re pretty young,” Daryl says, “Do you think they can manage without their mama?”

“We’ve got milk and some eyedroppers in medical,” Paul says, “If we’re lucky that will do the trick. We lose a  _ ton _ of food to mice and rats no matter how we store it. Little bastards are full of diseases too, we could really use some cats around,” he reaches in the box and pats one of the kittens, a little silver tabby, “Plus they’re adorable as fuck. The kids will like ‘em.”

“Kids will go nuts over them, you mean,” Daryl says. He thinks quite a few adults besides Tara will too. The little tuxedo has relaxed enough that he’s drifting off to sleep. 

Paul’s dappled grey horse paws out the ground and gives an annoyed whinny.

“Alright, alright,” Paul mutters, “Tara? Herself will murder us if we don’t see to the horses right away.”

“Ok,” she says, and looks at Daryl, “Do you think you can take them to the house for us?” Tara says, staring at the kittens reluctantly. She starts to give Daryl elaborate instructions on their care. He doesn’t think he got this much micromanagement when he had to feed Lil’ Asskicker. Paul looks amused.

“Got a better idea,” he interrupts, “Why don’t you take ‘em and I’ll see to your horse?”

“Maggie wants me to do it, says it’s to help us bond.”

Tara doesn’t need much convincing, however, “I think you’ll be ok this one time,” Paul says. 

Tara makes a few more token protests before handing the reins of her horse to Daryl.

Daryl and Paul lead the horses inside. He looks pleased to have Daryl accompany him.

“Your leg ok?” Paul asks.

“It’ll do for this,” Daryl answers. He can lean against the stable walls or the horse itself if need be. 

The two men work side by side in silence, removing and stowing the riding gear. 

“I really hope the cats work out,” Paul says after a while, “Now if I could find some dogs. Last time I was at the Kingdom Ezekiel said he thought he could train one well enough for Glenn. Not like a real service animal but good enough to at least lead him around a little or bark if there’s a walker nearby.”

“I ate the last dogs I saw,” Daryl says. 

Paul chuckles, then looks at his face, “Oh my god, you’re serious. I don’t know if I can forgive even you for that. I love dogs.”

“I’ve killed  _ people, _ Paul.”

“So have I, but I haven’t hurt a dog at least,” he sighs, “Such terrible things this world has made us into.”

Daryl snorts out a little laugh. He’s removed the last of his horse’s gear and grabs one of the battered towels hanging on a peg in the back of the stable to rub him down. He hands it to Paul when he’s finished. 

“What’s that?” Paul asks, looking at Daryl’s vest. 

“Oh,” Daryl says. He’s tucked the book inside his vest and he brings it out now and hands it to Paul, “Miss Dina wanted to give that to you as a thank you.”

Paul looks embarrassed. He sighs and says, “I keep telling her thanks aren’t necessary. She already does my laundry.”

“Just being nice,” Daryl says, “I saw what she uses those batteries for. She’d probably do a lot more than the laundry if you asked.”

“That’s the point,” Paul says, “I don’t like asking for…special favors from anyone. Everyone here needs to do all they can, whatever that might be. Going out is my thing.”

“It’s a pretty big thing,” Daryl answers.

“Not to me. I prefer it; sometimes this place feels a bit too crowded. I’d go out and get her damn batteries if she never did a single stitch of the laundry.”

Daryl has found a brush and starts in on his horse. He doesn’t say anything, just thinks. He wonders how many little luxuries like that Paul has brought back for different people just because he could. 

He starts brushing his horse down. His leg is bothering him, he’s leaning against the horse for a minute when it decides to fuck with him by shifting its spot. 

“Damnit,” Daryl says with a hiss as he’s nearly knocked off balance and pain shoots up his leg.

“You ok?” Paul asks.

“Fine,” Daryl says through gritted teeth and waits it out. He takes a deep breath, “Really, fine.”

“How’d your physical therapy go?”

“Your Mr Marshmallow made it so I could barely walk after.”

“Alex tends to have that effect, yes,” Paul says. He’s so deadpan that Daryl misses the innuendo at first. When he gets it his fingers tighten on the horse brush a pulse of anger goes through, there and gone so fast he can’t begin to analyze it. An unbidden image of Alex tangled in the sheets of Paul’s bed comes to him.

His horse knickers at him reprovingly, Daryl realizes he’s been brushing like a man trying to sand down a chunk of wood. He breathes in and out and forces himself to ease up. He glances up at Paul, the other man hasn’t noticed. For the first time in a long while Daryl feels uncomfortable in the silence between them. 

“Why’d you break up with him, then?” Daryl blurts out. It’s the first thing he can think to ask. 

Paul’s lips twitch and he gives Daryl one of his playfully sly looks, “What did I tell you about jealousy? He’s not my type. My type is more older guy, dark, broody, thinks sleeves are for wimps—“

“I thought we had a ‘no fuckery’ rule.”

“Even if it were fuckery rather than sincere declarations of my complete adoration that rule only applies to the house. Which we are not in.”

“Fine, be that way,” Daryl says, “You can think I’m some dumb redneck who is scandalized by your gay ass if it gives you a laugh.”

Paul looks startled, “I don’t think that at all.”

“Then why do you have to act like an asshole over a simple question?”

“Maybe it’s because it’s actually a sore subject with me and I’m trying to make light of it,” Paul says. There’s just the slightest hint of anger in his voice.

Well now  _ Daryl  _ feels like an asshole. His irritation leaves him and he wonders why it riled him up so much to begin with, “Sorry. Was just wonderin’.”

They both focus on brushing their respective animals in silence. Finally, Paul says, “He sorta broke up with me, actually. Even if for some reason all of Hilltop thinks it was the other way around.”

“Oh,” Daryl says. Now he  _ really _ feels like an asshole. It’s easy to be fooled by Paul’s impish trickster persona, easier than his Jesus one. Paul might still have feelings for Alex. His stomach flutters with guilt for bringing it up and something else, “Like I said. Just wonderin’. Don’t have to talk.”

Paul sighs, “It wasn’t my finest hour. I should have known better going into it, but…” Daryl looks up at him, he’s staring at his horse and his brushing slows and he sighs again, “Alex has been here since the beginning, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. He remembers Alex’s interview for Glenn’s census. Alexander, age 29, nurse practitioner. Hasn’t killed a single walker. Killed one person, under the loosest definition of the word. A doctor he worked for prescribed the wrong medication to a patient and Alex knew it, but was he had just graduated nursing school and doubted himself. As for the walkers he’d come directly from a nearby FEMA camp to the shelter at Hilltop. Lucky for him, Daryl can’t imagine him lasting long on the outside. Can’t imagine him killing a living person at all, or the reanimated corpse of a loved one. He reminds Daryl achingly of Tyreese.

Paul continues, “He didn’t come here alone, his boyfriend was working with him at the same FEMA camp. Been together for years, planning on a big gay wedding, adopting 2.3 kids, white picket fence, et cetera,” Paul is trying to sound flippant but he’s failing, “Not long before I came to Hilltop Jeremy—that was his name—died while out on a run.”

“Shit,” Daryl says.

“Yeah. Anyway, when we started our thing Alex told me up front that he wasn’t over Jeremy and didn’t want a relationship, just sex. Something to distract him. Which was perfect because that’s all I wanted. Especially after I started going on runs myself, there were times where I only spent one day here for every ten I spent away,” Paul goes quiet and the noise of the horse brush is the only sound, “Also I wasn’t in the best mental state at the time. I’d been out there for a while.”

Daryl chews on that last bit of information. He doesn’t disbelieve Paul but it’s still hard to imagine him any other way than his calm self-possession.

“It was simple,” Paul says, “Someone to share a bed with. A distraction,” he shrugs his shoulders, “Then one day he told me he was falling in love with me and if I didn’t feel the same he wanted to stop what we were doing. So that was that.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just because we’re the last two gay men on earth doesn’t mean Alex should settle for someone who doesn’t love him and never will. It’s shitty to lead people on. I should have known better, does Alex strike you as a ‘no strings attached’ type of guy? I’m just glad he ended it before things went too far.”

Daryl stares at him. Paul sounds like he completely believes what he’s saying and Daryl wonders how a guy who is usually so insightful could be that clueless. Alex is obviously still very much in love with Paul, it’s written all over the big guy’s face whenever Daryl mentions the other man. Even Glenn could probably see it. 

“You’re not the last two gay men on earth,” Daryl says, “There’s Eric and Aaron.”

Paul snorts, “Are you suggesting they all get together in a big polyamory type thing?” Paul looks thoughtful, “Hmmm. Sexy, but not likely.”

Daryl feels his face go hot. Still it’s good to know that the moment has passed and Paul is back to being an annoying little troll. 

They don’t say much more after that and it’s not long before they’re done with the horses. Paul pats his horse affectionately and says to Daryl, “Well, I need to go take a shower.”

“Another one?”

Paul rolls his eyes, “Yes Daryl, another one. I’d suggest you do the same but I know I’m wasting my breath.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl says amiably as the two men leave the stables and head towards the trailers. They’re almost to the house when they see Maggie trotting their way. She sees Paul and grins.

“Jesus! I was just coming to talk to you. Did you find any copper wiring?”

“No,” Paul says, “We came back before I could really look. Did you see the kittens, though? Kittens, Maggie.”

“Yes,” she says. She tries to convey with her expression that she is not excited about them but fails.

“Thought Glenn told you to burn that, it’s just practice,” Paul says. Daryl looks up to see what the hell he’s talking about and notices that Maggie has the world’s ugliest scarf around her neck. It’s a poorly made lumpy mess constructed of different clashing colors of yarn.

“Hell with that, I’m going to wear it forever. What are you two up to?”

“I’m going to take a shower because I smell like a horse. Daryl is going to pretend like he’s too much of a badass to want to play with some kittens.”

“Well, I’ll walk with you two for a bit,” Maggie says, “There’s some things I want to—“

She doesn’t get any further because that is when the screams start. All three of them jump and look around wildly. The screams are coming from the trailers behind Barrington house, in the forest of hanging sheets and laundry. Several people are pushing through in a panic while others stand and ask what’s going on. 

Paul moves into action first, running towards the scream. Maggie and Daryl are only a few seconds behind him. Both of them leave Daryl behind before too long, he’s limping along with his cane as fast as he can but that isn’t much. 

The screams get louder as they dive in among the hanging laundry. It creates a terrifying maze with constantly moving walls—a sheet will blow in the wind and Daryl will get a glimpse of bright blood before it snaps back. Wet cloth slaps at Daryl’s face as they are blown by the wind. They finally make their way through into a cleared space by one of the trailers and they see the cause of the screams.

The scene is a horror. Glenn is on the ground trapped in some clothesline and thrashing about in a panic. Charlie has his walking stick and is standing in front of him trying to hold a pair of walkers off. Four more have already seized a third person and are tearing him apart. He’s still alive and screaming in that high-pitched wail Daryl has heard far too many times.

Charlie gives one walker a hard smack and turns to the other, not seeing the third one push through the hanging sheets and reach for her. 

Before it can Paul is there. He leaps straight at the walker, twists his body midair and kicks his feet out. His boot hits the walker in the face and it goes sprawling back. Paul lands on his side and leaps to his feet, knife in hand, and finishes it off before whirling around to help Charlie take down the other two walkers.

Maggie is there next and Daryl isn’t that far behind either of them. The three walkers that were attacking Charlie and Glenn have been dispatched and they make short work of the four who were distracted by their feeding. 

“Glenn!” Maggie rushes to her husband’s side and begins frantically checking him for bites as she untangles him from the sheet.

Charlie is crying, begging Maggie to tell her that Glenn’s ok.

A crowd of people has gathered, Daryl hears someone cry out “No! Matthew!” A woman pushes through the crowd and flings herself on her knees next to the mauled man on the ground screaming his name again and again. He’s still alive somehow, despite being dismembered and his guts strewn over the ground.

Matthew, forty-two, former high school football coach. Walkers killed: twenty or so. People: Two, both Saviors. 

The woman at his side clutching his face and sobbing is Penny, forty-four, former kindergarten teacher, his wife of sixteen years. Killed as many walkers as her husband but not as many people. 

Paul goes to her side, his knife in hand. He puts an arm around her and starts whispering in her ear. She screams and sobs louder and tries to push him away. He restrains her and keeps talking. Her sobs grow quieter and she starts nodding her head. Paul hands her the knife. She bends down and presses a kiss to her husband’s forehead and raises the knife. Daryl looks away but he still hears the sound of the knife going home and her wail of anguish after.

When he looks back she’s on her feet being held up by Paul. Two women come running and Paul hands her over to them. They’re both crying but Penny is just staring blankly at nothing.

“Oh my god, it’s Karen!” someone else gasps. Daryl finally takes a good look at the dead walkers and realizes he recognizes them, they’re Hilltop folk, he thinks they all live crammed together in the trailer in front of them.

An air of terror is moving through the crowd, more people recognizing the dead and Daryl hears cries of, “Who killed them?” “Are there more walkers in here?” “Oh god how did they get in?” “This place isn’t safe—” 

Paul is trying to calm them down but it’s Maggie who succeeds. After she has verified Glenn isn’t bit she gets up and hollers, “Everybody be quiet! Right now!”

The noise tapers off and the crowd stares at her wide-eyed. “I need all of you to stay calm. We don’t know what happened or if there’s anymore walkers in here. If there are it’s not many or we’d be swarmed right now. We’re going to search all of Hilltop and if there’s a breach in the walls we’ll fix it, and if there’s any walkers inside we’ll get rid of them. I want everyone to stay together, head to the house. If you see anyone tell them what happened and do the same. Grab any weapons you see and get ready. Jesus,” she says to Paul, “Go find Dante and Marco, then start looking.” He nods and jogs off toward the gates. 

Still murmuring fearfully the crowd begins to migrate towards Barrington. As they leave a few of them stop to stare at Glenn where he’s slumped over shaking on the ground. Charlie is at his side and she’s beside herself, telling him she’s sorry over and over again. 

“Daryl, take her to the house,” Maggie says quietly, “And stay there while we look. You can’t move around well enough to search but if there’s another attack I don’t trust anyone else to deal with it. Tell Tara we need her too.”

Daryl nods and starts to follow her orders. “C’mon kid,” he says to Charlie, “Nothin’ you can do right now,” he touches her shoulder briefly and she flings her arms around his torso, buries her face into his chest and cries harder. Daryl stands there awkwardly, hands dangling at his side.

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” she says, “I didn’t know they were dead,” she has more to say but it’s made intelligible by her sobs.

He gives her head a cautious pat, “It’s fine. We need to go now, though. Um. There’s kittens.” He tries to escape her grip but she just shifts, clinging to his side. Daryl looks toward Maggie helplessly and sees she’s kneeling down to talk to Glenn.

“Glenn?” Maggie whispers. Her husband is still on his hands and knees, breathing harsh gasps. His fingers dig into dirt and make long furrows. Maggie touches him on the shoulder and he jerks away. For a second she looks unbearably fragile before she hardens her features. 

“I’m alright,” he says. Then his face crumples and he screams, “God  _ damn  _ it!” He raises his fist and punches it against the ground again and again. 

“Glenn! Glenn!” Maggie says, grabbing his arm and trying to restrain him. He jerks away from her again and stumbles to his feet. He stands there trembling. Not in fear, but in pure *rage*. Maggie stares at him wide-eyed.

Gradually Glenn’s breathing slows and he says in an emotionless voice, “I’ll go back with Daryl. You need to start searching this place.” His tone scares Daryl badly; he doesn’t think he’s heard it since the day he first climbed the steps and guilted Glenn into leaving his rooms. 

“Glenn—“

“C’mon Daryl,” Glenn says, “Let’s go.”

*********

Carbon monoxide poisoning.

Maggie tells him that’s what they think it was when she comes to Barrington house a few hours later. It’s so absurd that Daryl wants to laugh. 

They had a little kerosene heater they had bartered or scavenged enough gas to run. Maggie thinks they forgot to crack a window, or didn’t even realize that was a danger. 

“At least I hope they forgot,” Maggie says heavily.

They all must have died and reanimated sometime during the night. 

Glenn had gone there to discuss a project with one of the trailer’s occupants. No one had answered and Charlie just opened the door without thinking. Matthew had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he had probably saved Charlie and Glenn both; Charlie said when he saw the first walker he came running and tried to hold it off. He hadn’t realized there were more in the trailer.

“How’s Glenn doing?” Maggie asks.

Daryl hesitates. When they got back to the house several frightened residents had swarmed Glenn and asked what was going on. Daryl had been struck by that—by the fact that he was the guy people went to for reassurance. 

Glenn had ignored them all and gone upstairs to his and Maggie’s room. 

Maggie looks exhausted and angry and sad all at once when Daryl tells her this, “Ok,” she says. Daryl notices that she’s still wearing the ugly scarf Glenn made.

They are joined shortly by Paul, who tells Maggie he can talk to her now or later.

“Now is good,” she answers, then turns to Daryl, “Are you ok here?”

“I was going to head back the trailer if you think it’s all clear. Unless you need somethin’?”

“No, it’s ok,” she answers. She looks decades older than she did when he first saw her today, “Jesus? Let’s go upstairs.”

“I’ll see you later?” Paul says to Daryl before he follows her away. Daryl nods.

***********

It’s the middle of the night before Paul returns. Daryl hears the trailer door open from where he’s lying in his bedroom and knows that he was just waiting for him. He hasn’t even bothered to remove his leg brace.

When he limps into the living room he sees to his surprise Paul is not at the kitchen table reading. Instead he is on his exercise mat standing on his hands with his legs curved so far his feet are almost touching the back of his head. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing slowly, his shirt has slid down and Daryl can see every lean muscle in his torso in sharp definition. Daryl realizes he is staring.

“Are you made of fucking rubber or something?” Daryl asks, just to snap himself out of it. 

“Shit!” Paul says, startled. He loses his balance and tumbles to the floor with a loud thump and more cursing. He doesn’t get up, just lies sprawled on his back staring up at the ceiling. Daryl clomps over to make sure he’s ok before laughing at him. Paul raises his middle finger in Daryl’s direction. “Thought you’d gone to sleep.”

Daryl snorts, “Think I’m gonna sleep after today?”

“Fair point,” Paul says, closing his eyes, “I’m not even going to bother trying. Give me a second and I’ll get the cards.”

Daryl nods and steps over him to get to the kitchen table. He found out on one of his first nights that Paul hadn’t been exaggerating about not sleeping well. Without fail he’s awake when Daryl goes to bed and he is still awake when Daryl has one of his semi-regular nightmares that are bad enough to jolt him out of sleep.

The first few times it happened Daryl did what he normally does—stared up into the blackness for hours and waited until he could drift off again. 

Then one night he woke himself up screaming. He dragged himself upright and sat on the bed shivering when he heard a soft knock on his door. Paul asked if he was ok, then if he wanted to play cards. It’s happened a couple of times in the weeks since; they will play cards mostly in silence until one of them is tired enough to sleep. That person has been Daryl all but one time.

Tonight Daryl wants to talk. “How’s Maggie?” he asks. She’d been cool boss lady when he left, but she hadn’t been up to her room to see Glenn yet. 

Paul sighs, “She’s not doing so well. Glenn is— she’s worried about him. Worried he’ll pull away again, she just got him back.”

“He won’t,” Daryl says, “He’s tough.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

“I hope you’re right,” Paul says. There’s a pause in the conversation, then, “I tried to talk to him, but he just thought I was being patronizing.”

“What did you say?”

“That what he’s doing—organizing, figuring out the best way to use our people—is worth far more than anything supply runs or fighting. Lots of us can do that, or learn to. Not everyone has the head for leading.”

“Like I said, he’s tough. He won’t give up. That kid’s always had a set on ‘im,” Daryl says, “Did all sorts of crazy shit—went on runs all by himself into Atlanta at first. He’s the one who found Rick and brought him back to camp. Did he tell you about that?”

“Rick did, yeah. Not much; just that Glenn saved his life,” Paul answers.

Daryl finds himself telling the story as he knows it—he heard it secondhand and some of the details are fuzzy. He tells Paul about Rick coming to the Atlanta camp, “I didn’t much like him at first, then I found out him and T-Dog left Merle in the city and I liked him less—“ Daryl stops. He’d mentioned Merle without thinking, having left him out of his account until this point. Paul raises his eyebrows in a question and Daryl explains, “Merle was my brother. He, uh, he didn’t get on much with anyone in the Atlanta camp.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yeah. Older brother. Was livin’ with him before it all went down. We headed to Atlanta and ran into the group.”  _ And we was gonna rob ‘em blind, don’t forget that.  _ Daryl isn’t sure if that’s his own thought or what he thinks of as the Ghost of Merle Dixon.

“The two of you were close?”

Daryl can’t think of how to answer that question, “Yes and no,” he says. He struggles for words, “He looked out for me, when we was kids. But he was an asshole. I mean, so was I, but I was able to grow out of it a little bit. Merle didn’t want to.”

“Still it must have been hard to lose him.”

“Oh no. He didn’t die then,” Daryl says, “I went back to look for him. Glenn and Rick too, they felt bad.” Before he realizes it he’s told Paul about finding Merle’s hand and not knowing he was alive until almost a year later. 

And he still doesn’t stop. Paul listens quietly and even when he’s looking at his cards Daryl feels the force of the other man’s attention on him. Daryl tells Paul about Governor and Woodbury, about Merle’s role in Glenn’s capture, bringing him back to the prison.

“The Governor wanted Michonne,” Daryl finishes, “Rick almost gave her up to save everyone else, but decided against it. Merle tried to do it for him. Be the bad guy. But he couldn’t do it in the end. Michonne told me that. He let her go. Then he went to try and take out the Governor by himself. Last thing he did. Went without expecting to come back, just for the shot at killing the Governor.” The old anger and hurt comes to him. “I found him after. The Governor killed him, but left him to turn.”

Paul’s eyes are very kind when Daryl looks up at him. Makes him feel uncomfortable, “I can’t imagine,” he says with sincerity, “You must have been proud of him, in the end.”

“No,” Daryl says, “It pissed me off. He didn’t…he could have been like that a long time ago. Coulda decided to stop being an asshole. Coulda done us a lot of good.”

“Better late than never.”

Those kind eyes again. Daryl has trouble dealing with them, “Well,” he says gruffly, “We gonna play or not?”

They play in silence for a few hands. The subject is closed so Daryl isn’t sure why he decides to ask, “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

“Two sisters,” Paul answers after a beat, “Naomi was four years older than me, Ruthie was eight years younger.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“Yes. They’re dead,” he does not meet Daryl’s eyes and a muscle in his jaw twitches.

Daryl doesn’t ask for more. There’s no need for Paul to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.

It turns out that Paul does want to talk about it. “They died before,” Paul says after they play for awhile. Daryl looks up at him; he’s still staring at his cards. “It was a car accident. Naomi was home from college for winter break. Our parents took us all skiing and on the way back Dad lost control of the van. That’s how I broke my leg, remember I told you about that.”

“You did,” Daryl says. He studies Paul’s face—he’s still not meeting Daryl’s eyes and his face is blanker than a mask. It’s enough to confirm his horrible suspicion but he asks anyways, “Did anyone besides you survive that crash?”

Paul looks up with a sad little smile, “No.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to look away; throat tight. He can’t explain his reaction. Everyone in this graveyard of a world has lost someone. Daryl just got done talking about losing someone. Every person he loves except for Rick and Carl are the sole surviving members of their families. Still his heart hurts for his friend; hurts  _ bad _ . He can’t explain why the fact that it happened before makes it worse. Maybe the idea that Paul was so young. 

“It’s ok,” Paul says quietly, “Looking back on it, it’s ok. They all died instantly. My mom in particular… I’m glad she never lived to see this world.”

“That’s a helluva way to look at it.”

Paul shrugs and says, “I’m hardly the only person who’s had to deal with it,” echoing Daryl’s thoughts eerily, “And it’s been almost twenty years, I learned to live with it a long time ago. Fuck, I even got  _ grief counseling. _ So I’m luckier than most.”

“What happened after?”

“Foster care until I was seventeen, which is when I decided I’d had enough. Robbed my last foster family blind then took off. Thus began my descent into a life of crime.”

Daryl thinks about how Paul hasn’t mentioned his “life of crime” except for when he confessed to being convicted for felony burglary. Daryl has no idea how long he was in jail or how old he was when he went in. He almost asks, but guesses that Paul doesn’t want to talk about it. They finish their game in silence and Paul doesn’t deal another hand.

“Well Mr Dixon,” Paul says, “Honesty Hour has been a bucket of laughs but I think I’m going to go lay down for a bit at least.”

“Alright,” Daryl says.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

*************

“ _ Despair and deception, love’s ugly little twins _

_ Came knocking on my door, I let ‘em in _

_ Darling you’re the punishment for all my former sins _

_ I let love in, I let love in…” _

 

Daryl drifts awake to the now familiar sound of Paul’s voice. His dreams had been bad all night. Not the screaming horror kind, just anxiety inducing and unsettling. All things considered that was pretty good. 

He has a short breakfast with Paul before the other man has to go meet with Maggie. Daryl says he’ll meet him at the house later. 

“I’m gonna to talk to Glenn,” Daryl says, “But I need to think for a bit.”

Paul eyes are soft when he says, “That’s good.”

He makes his goodbyes and Daryl sits quietly at the table for about half an hour. He gets up and cleans out their breakfast plates, wheels in his head turning. He knows Paul wasn’t being condescending when he said that Glenn was doing the community a lot of good. If Paul wasn’t enough to convince Glenn then Daryl would drag the kid out by the scruff of his neck and  _ force  _ him to believe it.

He’s lost in these thoughts when he hears a knock at the trailer door. To his shock when he opens it it’s not Miss Dina or one of Paul’s annoying neighbors. It’s Glenn. He looks drawn and ashen but determined under it all.

“What are you doing here?” he blurts out.

“I need to talk to you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, ok. C’mon in. Be careful, there’s books everywhere and he’s impossible to live with if you mess ‘em up.”

Glenn steps inside and shuts the door but doesn’t come into the trailer any farther. 

“I need a favor,” he says.

“Anything,” Daryl answers. He regrets it when Glenn tells him exactly what he wants.

“Daryl?” Glenn asks when he doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched and he grips his walking stick so hard Daryl thinks it might break.

“Are you out of your fucking mind,” Daryl says.

“Maybe. Will you do it or not?”

“What does Maggie think about this?” Daryl asks, even though he knows the answer.

“She doesn’t know, she can’t know.”

“Shit,” Daryl says. He doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like this one bit. He studies Glenn’s face. He really has become shit at hiding his facial expressions— Daryl can see every bit of frustration and anger stamped on his face. He can also see the desperation. “It can’t just be me,” he says finally, “My leg still isn’t a hundred percent.” He considers Paul but dismisses him almost immediately. He would neither understand nor approve, “If you can get Tara to agree to it to then yeah, I’ll help.” 

The desperation leaves Glenn’s face, “Thank you,” he says with feeling. 

“For the record this is stupid as fuck.”

Glenn smiles a little, “I know. But thank you anyway.”   
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul is in scorpion pose when Daryl interrupts him.
> 
> http://tinypic.com/r/33mo2md/9


	9. Now

He’s walking in the tall grass where they’d arranged to meet the Governor. He’s come to find Merle, to stop him from doing something stupid and bring him back to the prison. There are bodies all over the ground—he looks down and sees Sofia clutching her little doll, the one he found in the woods. He walks on and sees Hershel’s severed head. Its white eyes open and its mouth moves. Here is Beth with a bloody hole in her head. There’s more—Dale, Andrea, Tyrese. Still more, but he doesn’t look at them. His eyes are on a walker kneeling over a body. Feeding. He knows what’s going to happen, it’s inevitable but he keeps walking.

He’s almost there when he sees a horse skull hidden in the grass, still bloody.

No.

This already happened, he’s done this before, he’s seen his brother’s reanimated corpse shoving bloody handful of meat in its mouth, he doesn’t need to do it again.

He’s powerless though, he has to keep walking. And there is the thing that used to be Merle, feeding. It looks up at him, blood on its chin. Daryl freezes, and his eyes skitter to the body Merle had been feeding on. Guts strewn all over the ground, long streaks of blood. It’s Paul. His eyes are open and sightless.

Things skip. He’s already killed Merle, stabbed him in the face until there was nothing recognizable left and now he’s on the ground sobbing. A shadow falls over him and he looks up. Paul has reanimated and is shuffling towards him, guts hanging out from where Merle had chewed a hole into him.

Daryl hears the noises coming out of his own mouth, high-pitched and breathy and he wants to scream but he can’t, there’s a weight on his chest and he can’t move or cry out-

-Daryl

_D-_

_“_ Daryl!”

He turns and there’s Rick, leaning over him and pressing a hand on his chest. They’re not outside, they’re in a building, the floor is hard and cold through his thin blanket. Daryl lets out a harsh breath as the last of the dream dissipates like fog and he remembers where they are, and why.

“You here?” Rick asks.

Daryl closes his eyes and nods. Lifts a shaky hand to his face and finds that it’s wet.

“Daryl?” his voice is soft.

“‘M here,” he says, voice sounding like his throat is full of gravel.

He looks around their little corner of the Sanctuary, sees Maggie on a camping cot a few feet away, Dante standing guard. The rest of their group is awake and gearing up for a fight. Daryl pushes himself up into a sitting position, drawing his knees to his chest.

“What time is it?”

“Few hours before dawn,” Rick answers. Daryl notices his eyes are red and tired, “We’ve got something.”

It takes a few seconds for Daryl to realize what Rick is saying. Every muscle goes rigid and he can’t speak at first.

Rick answers the question that’s still frozen in Daryl’s throat, “It’s not much. But we think he know where the Saviors are camped out. If it is them.” Rick adds the last bit like an afterthought but Daryl can hear the certainty in his voice. “Let me get Maggie up, I want to talk to all of you. Get ready.”

The few minutes it takes to rouse Maggie and for Daryl to gear up seem to last hours. Daryl is quivering like a bloodhound, Rick has a location. Everything in him wants to demand exactly where it is right now then race there immediately.

Once everyone is assembled Rick looks around and tells them to come in close. He gives Michonne a look and she nods and stands guard a few feet away. They’re alone in this area of the Sanctuary but Rick isn’t taking any chances.

“One of the supply runners said he thought he saw smoke coming from a place called Collum airfield,” Rick says, “It’s a little regional airport, not ten miles from here. Dwight said that Negan used it as an outpost then abandoned it,” Rick says, “I looked on the map, going from the airfield to the Sanctuary they could have crossed paths with Jesus,” Rick pauses, “Or he might have seen something and gone to investigate and got caught.”

“What’s the plan?” Rosita asks.

Rick doesn’t say anything for a few beats. He glances over to where Michonne is pacing and keep an eye out. Rick turns back to the group and in a low voice says, “We’ll get to that. We’ve gotta talk about something else first.”

***********

After Rick talks to them all in private they file into the main area of the Sanctuary. It’s full of Saviors blinking sleepily and looking around in fear. They’re muttering things to one another, a low murmur of words that Daryl can’t pick out. When they spy their group the murmuring intensifies.

“Is it true?” a voice asks. Daryl turns to see a pair of Saviors looking terrified but determined. One is an older woman, tall and stork like. The other is a bald man with a thick black beard and dark eyes. “Is it?” the woman repeats.

“Is what true?” Sasha asks.

“That he escaped,” the man chimes in.

“Do you mean Negan?” Michonne asks. The man cringes away, he’s clearly afraid of her.

The woman is a bit more composed but still looks pale when she says, “Yeah. That’s what everyone is saying. That he got away and you all came to find him.”

“Negan’s in a cell still,” Rick says, “He’s not getting out.”

The two Saviors don’t look convinced, “Then why are you all here?”

“We’re looking for one of our people,” Maggie says, “Paul Rovia, some folks call him Jesus. He’s missing and we’re looking for him.”

“I know Jesus,” the man says, “He’s a nice guy.”

Of course this random Savior knows Paul, Daryl thinks. People take to Paul within a few minutes of meeting him, it’s one of his talents. And of course Paul could murder his way through packs of Saviors during the war and the survivors would still think he was a “nice guy.” There’s a lump in Daryl’s throat.

A silence falls over the assembled Saviors. Daryl looks and sees that Dwight is standing on a catwalk over the main floor of the Sanctuary. Laura and Donnie are to the side. Dwight looks nervous, he’s sweating and his pale skin is flushed red. Daryl remembers Carol telling him that making him the leader of the Sanctuary was probably the worst punishment Rick could have ever given him. He didn’t really believe her until this moment. “Everyone be quiet!” His voice cracks, “I know it’s late. Or early. But I’ve got something to tell you all—“

“Is Negan coming back?” someone cries out. Daryl isn’t sure if whether or not the speaker is afraid or ecstatic at the possibility.

“What?” Dwight says, thrown, “No of course not—“

The Saviors don’t seem reassured; panicked chatter rolls through the crowd and drown out Dwight’s calls for order. This is when Rick leaves the group and walks up the steps to the catwalk. The crowd starts quieting before he even opens his mouth.

“You all know me,” he says when the factory floor is completely silent, “Some of you might have reason to hate me. We’ve fought against each other; we’ve lost family. But the new world we’ve created these past months…nothing that came before matters. We can stand together, all of us, and build something. Or we can be at each other’s throats, fighting over scraps.

“Negan hasn’t escaped, and he’s not going to. He’s never going to leave that cell. But he’s not the only one who wants things back to how they were. Us fighting each other, living in fear. We’ve got reason to believe that Ogden and his people are back. That he’s got his eye on the Sanctuary. This is a man who wants Negan back or to step in his place. One man on high and everyone kneeling before him.

“But it’s not going to work. We’re in this together now. Attacking one of us means attacking all of us. I’ve sent word to the Kingdom, Hilltop, even as far as Oceanside. They’re going to send reinforcements and we’re going to make sure that this place can’t be taken, if it comes to that. But I’m hoping it won’t.

“We’ve got a lead on where they are. They took one of our people and we’re going to go and get him back. Hopefully we can end this today. Anyone who doesn’t want to go back to kneeling is welcome to come with us.”

Once he’s finished speaking Rick turns around and heads back to the Sanctuary floor to rejoin the group. He’s stopped a few times as he moves through the crowd of Saviors—they’re not looking at him in fear now, the expressions on their faces are of determination and confidence. _Fucking Rick Grimes_ , Daryl thinks.

***********

In the end the assembled party consists of the group that set out from Alexandria the previous afternoon plus Dwight, Donnie, Laura, and five other Saviors including the couple who asked if Negan was coming back.

The plan is rough by necessity—they don’t have time for anything else. Daryl can almost hear the clock ticking down. They have hours at most. He can’t work fast enough to calm his racing nerves.

While Rick goes over a few details with Dwight Daryl is loading up the Rover. He senses someone watching him, and when he turns he sees Laura. Her face is set in hard lines and her jaw is clenched.

“Somethin’ you want to say to me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Laura’s face is dark with anger, “We’re  going with you and Rick. Dwight’s going to _help_ , and you have no idea what those people will do to him if this shit goes south. So I swear to you if you go after him again or do something stupid you’ll have to answer to me.”

Daryl snorts, “Whatever,” and continues to load up the van.

“No, not whatever,” she says. Daryl hears the cock of a pistol. He turns to face her. She isn’t pointing the gun at him but she has it out and is holding it by her side.

“Is Dwight keeping a group of wives too? That what this is?”

The expression on Laura’s face makes Daryl think that he’s actually about to be shot right then and there. She visibly holds her temper in check, “Fuck you. Dwight’s a better man than you’ll ever be. He’s a fucking hero.”

Daryl doesn’t laugh but it’s a near thing.“You need better standards,” Daryl says.

“He _saved_ us! You never would have gotten rid of Negan without his help. So he killed your friend? Well, one of your little group killed my best friend,” Laura’s eyes fill with angry tears, “Michelle. She was at the first outpost you raided.”

“If she was a part of that group she had no one but herself to blame,” Daryl snarls back at her, “We was attacked on the road by you people. They would have killed Sasha and Abe—” Daryl’s voice stutters, “Then maybe more people in Alexandria. Killed people from the Hilltop, stole supplies from them. They kept photos of people who had their heads bashed in by Negan on the wall as _trophies_.

“ _Some_ of us didn’t have much choice about following his orders,” Laura says.

“You’ve always got a choice!” Daryl answers. Fuck this ‘just following orders’ shit.

“Really? If someone held a gun to your Jesus’s head and told you to kill a stranger or he’d pull the trigger what would you do? _That’s_ what living under Negan was like all the time.”

Laura may has well tossed a bucket of gasoline on his emotions and lit a match, “Maybe if your boyfriend wasn’t a back-stabbing coward we could have gotten rid of Negan with a lot less bloodshed,” Daryl snaps, “He coulda come with me to Alexandria, him and his wife. I offered them a place to stay, they could have told us more about Negan, let us know what we was getting into. He tried to save his own hide instead. Run away and abandoned all y’all here to your fate. Maybe if he’d made a different decision we _wouldn’t be here._ ”

“You’re right,” a voice says. Daryl and Laura both turn to see that Dwight has come upon them unnoticed. Laura’s face twists; Daryl sees a fierce anger and an even fiercer love there. Before she can protest Dwight says, “It’s ok, Laura. I need you to go help Donnie. I’ll be fine.”

Laura bites off her protests and stomps off, leaving Daryl and Dwight alone. Dwight’s nose is swollen, Daryl wonders if he broke it. Daryl wants to hit him again to make sure. But this won’t work without him, Rick had said as much earlier and Daryl knew he was right. He elects to ignore the other man entirely and go back to his business. Dwight stands there, watching him. “You’re right,” he repeats, “If that makes you feel any better. If I could go back to that day I’d have gone to Alexandria with you.”

“Well then you wouldn’t have been a _hero_ to your girlfriend over there,” Daryl says, “What’s the wife think of that, by the way?”

“Sherry and me aren’t together anymore,” Dwight answers, “She left me. Couldn’t look at my face anymore without thinking of Negan.”

Daryl will not feel sorry for this motherfucker. He will not think about how Sherry spent months as one of Negan’s “wives”. Negan loved to say he abhorred sexual violence and that being his wife was completely voluntary but Daryl knew better. He thinks unwillingly about what Laura had said and knows she’s right. If someone had a gun to Paul’s head he doesn’t think there’s an act too vile for him to do in order to keep them from pulling the trigger. He’s tired suddenly. “Look,” Daryl says, leaning against the van, “We get him back and you and me are square. But right now I don’t give a fuck about you. I’ve got other things to think about.”

“Fair enough,” Dwight says, “I don’t give a fuck about you either. I want this place safe and I want the communities to stay working together. And I’m getting Paul back because he’s a good man. Him and Ezekiel was the ones who talked Rick into trusting me, did he ever tell you that?”

Paul hadn’t; but Daryl isn’t surprised. Paul was someone who could put his own feelings aside for the greater good. His chest tightens when he remembers that one of the reasons Paul is out there now is because he couldn’t do that this one time and no matter what Maggie has said Daryl knows that it’s his fault.

_If I could go back to that day I’d have gone to Alexandria with you._

He hates understanding Dwight.

*****************

 


	10. Then

The day he takes Glenn out it turns out it’s not Maggie that he needs to worry about lying to. It’s Paul. Yesterday when he went out Paul hadn’t realized it until he got back. Today, however, when Paul asks what he’s up to Daryl has to lie. 

“Goin’ on a run with Tara,” he answers, “See about catching some game.”

“Again?” Paul asks, frowning, “Is your leg up for it?”

“It was fine yesterday. I’ll manage; don’t even need a cane anymore and we’re taking a car,” Daryl tries not to squirm. Lying to Paul is surprisingly difficult.

Paul drums his fingers against the kitchen table, “Still. If you have to run, can you? If something happens—“

“I’ll be fine. I need to get out of this place.” That at the least isn’t a lie. Yesterday when he and Tara went to set things up had been a little slice of Paradise. He hadn’t realized how cooped up he’d been until he’d left the walls and stood out in an open wood.

Paul chews his lip, “If you can wait to do it tomorrow I can come with the two of you—“

“You nag worse than my mama,” Daryl says. “We’re not going far. You never met Noah, that kid had a leg way worse than mine and was one of our best runners.”

“‘Was’,” Paul says significantly.

“He didn’t die because of his leg, he died because the person with him was a worthless sack of shit. Ask Glenn about it.”

Paul waves that off, “Still. I mean it’s not  _ necessary _ for you to go out hunting, we have food here.”

“We can always use more. And you’re one to talk about going out when you don’t need to,” Daryl replies, “At least I’m telling you that I’m leaving.”

Paul can’t say anything to that. The man has a habit of sneaking out of the grounds for hours at a time without sending word to anyone. Daryl has yet to discover how he does it—he doesn’t use the gates and Daryl has patrolled the grounds enough with Glenn that if there’s a gap in the walls he’d know about it. 

“Ok,” Paul agrees reluctantly, “Just be careful out there, alright?”

“Always am.”

Later on his way to meet with Tara and Glenn Daryl is surprised at how guilty he feels for lying to Paul. He’s also obscurely pleased that Paul cares enough to fuss over him. Still Daryl is certain he made the right choice in not telling him; there’s no way in hell Paul would drop it that fast if he knew what they were really up to.

They have to smuggle Glenn out of the Hilltop in the trunk of the car. They drive until they’re out of sight from the guards and pull over to let him out.

“Are you ok?” Tara asks. 

“Fine. Glad to get out of there, though. Pitch black, couldn’t see a thing.”

Daryl chuckles dutifully and Tara gives a weak smile. Glenn gets into the front seat next to Tara and they continue on their way. 

 

**********

They reach the barn  after less than twenty minutes of driving. Tara shuts the engine down. She hesitates then says, “I don’t like this,” she says, “Maybe we should just go back. I don’t like lying to Maggie.”

“I don’t like lying to her either. But I need to do this,” Glenn replies.

Tara gives Daryl a beseeching look, but he just shakes his head. He gets it.

“Let me do a perimeter check first,” she says, “The two of you stay here.” She gets out of the car and holds her rifle loosely in her arms. Daryl watches her go.

“Do you still think this is a bad idea?” Glenn asks after they sit quietly in the car for a few minutes.

“No. I know it is.”

“But you’re not going to try and talk me out of it?”

Daryl thinks for a minute, “Would I be able to?”

“No.”

“Well then.”

Glenn’s lips quirk into a smile, “Thank you again.” He turns in Daryl’s direction. His unseeing eyes are pointed to an area about just above Daryl’s shoulder. 

“You scared?” Daryl asks.

“No,” his smile is sad, “This is actually the least scared I’ve been since it happened.”

Tara finishes her sweep of the perimeter and gestures for Daryl to come out. Daryl lets Glenn know it’s all clear and both men open their car doors. Despite what he said about not being scared it takes Glenn a moment to swing his legs out and leave the shelter of the car.

He stands there for a long time, head cocked, listening to the sounds of the world around him. A bird chirps somewhere in the distance. Wind blows and rustles the tall grass. Winter is definitely on its way; all three of their breaths are visible in the air. Glenn takes a few cautious steps forward, orients himself, and keeps walking, walking stick sweeping across the ground in front of him. Daryl follows a few paces behind, not saying a word even when Glenn veers off course a little. Glenn said he wanted to find the barn by himself. He corrects himself eventually, growing more confident by the step. His stick smacks against the side of the barn, and he smiles a little. He feels around until he finds the door, steels himself, and goes inside. Daryl follows, propping the door open. Tara stands just inside the doorway, scanning around for trouble. 

The walkers notice them and get their feet. The noise that comes from their ruined throats is a weird gurgling hiss. Glenn stops. Daryl can hear his harsh breathing. “There are…four of them? No, three,” he says with more confidence.

“Right,” Daryl says, “Wait a second!” because Glenn starts marching to the walkers. 

Glenn stops with a frustrated sigh, “What? They’re safe, right? You took care of them?”

“I just,” Daryl says, searching for the words. “I guess I thought you needed a warm up.”

“This  _ is _ the warm up,” Glenn replies, and starts forward again.

The walkers have been chained down. All three are at the very limits of the chains’ reach, still straining to get at the living person ahead of them. The day before Daryl hacked the arms and jaws off both of them--Michonne’s trick. Glenn’s staff taps the floor as he takes one step after another. He stops maybe five feet from the closest walker, listens, then takes a few steps closer before stopping again. 

Daryl’s heart speeds up. The walkers are as harmless as walkers can be—if the chains break they can’t bite, they have no arms to clutch, but it’s still scary as hell to see Glenn not three feet away from one, face pointed in its general direction but not seeing it. Glenn raises the staff, shifts his grip, and pushes it toward the walker. Not hard, just taps it on the sternum.

“I need to go higher, right?” Glenn asks, “Don’t tell me by how much.”

He stands there, listening for a long time. When he thrusts his staff out again it’s at the right height but it brushes past the walker’s face. Glenn lets out a frustrated hiss, then tries a third time. On his fifth try the staff smacks smartly against the walkers forehead, and Daryl lets out a soft, “Hell yes!” Glenn grins and Daryl considers today a success for that alone.

He rethinks that when Glenn thrusts the staff forward in a short but powerful movement. He misses the walker’s forehead completely, overcompensates, and trips over his own feet. The walker gurgles from its ruined mouth, crouches down and tries to bite without jaws. Tara lets out a cry and runs in from her spot by the doors at the same time Daryl starts forward. He grabs the walker and pulls it off of Glenn, takes out his knife, and is about to drive it through the walker’s skull when Glenn cries out “Wait!”

“Glenn, this is a bad idea, we should-” Tara starts to say.

“There’s a reason I asked Daryl to have it tied up. I’m *fine*,” He begins groping for his staff.

“It’s on your left-” Daryl says.

“ _ Don’t. HELP. ME _ !” Glenn’s shout startles Daryl into silence. Glenn finally finds his staff, and he hauls himself to his feet then turns to Daryl, quivering in rage.

“Either of you! Don’t fucking help me! Don’t you get it? Don’t you get why I need this? I  _ panicked  _ and ran when I realized there was a walker coming for me, it could’ve gotten Charlie and it  _ did _ get Matthew. If I hadn’t been so helpless then maybe—”

“Glenn,” Tara murmurs, “We help each other, we always have.”

Glenn’s breathing hard, getting his temper under control. “I know. I know, and I know that I’ll never…that it will never be like before. But I need to know I can keep it together if something happens again,” his face twists, “Please. I’ll be ok.”

Daryl exchanges a look with Tara. She nods, and he says, “Alright. But listen, you’re trying to run before you can walk. Let us help you a little, ok? Just to start out.”

Glenn’s lips tighten, but eventually he says “Ok. Ok.”

Glenn consents to being led by Daryl back in front of the straining walker. Daryl stands at his side, and says, “Alright. He’s right in front of you, trying and just tap him again. Too high…to the left a little…”

They stay there for maybe half an hour, Glenn snapping his staff forward repeatedly under Daryl’s instruction. He misses the sweet spot more than not, but his breathing is calm and even and he doesn’t stop trying. Finally with a shocking quickness he snaps his staff out and hits the walker dead center in its forehead and it drops.

Daryl lets out a whoop and smacks Glenn’s arm. Glenn is smiling calmly now.

“Alright,” Glenn says, cocking his head and listening to get a read on the second walker. He walks over to it and says, “Let’s try this again.”

*************

They don’t get back until nearly dusk. “Do you think you were missed?” Daryl asks Glenn. 

“If you hear loud screaming from Maggie in a bit you’ll know,” Glenn answers. Despite his words he doesn’t seem anxious. Very much the opposite, when he walks toward Barrington house it’s with complete confidence, almost a swagger.

Tara watches him and says, “I think we’ll be hearing loud screaming from Maggie tonight regardless.” She laughs when Daryl turns red after he gets what she’s saying. She should spend less time with Paul.

Speaking of the man himself to Daryl’s surprise Paul is at the trailer with dinner when he arrives. “So I take it your run went well today,” Paul says as Daryl tears into his food. 

“Went great,” Daryl says, “It was good to get out, even if I didn’t catch anything.” They stayed out for hours while Glenn practiced killing walkers. This isn’t a movie; Daryl doesn’t expect him to become a blind samurai who can fight better than he could when he was sighted. But the kid is  _ calm _ . Keeps his head together. 

When they left the barn another walker had wandered in. When it saw them it came staggering over, hands outstretched. Glenn didn’t flinch, just shifted his grip on his staff while Tara dispatched it. They’re almost to the car when Glenn stopped and said, “There’s another one.” Once he pointed it out Daryl could hear it as well, a slight rustling of dead leaves being kicked aside by dead feet. 

Daryl said they’d get it next time. The walker stumbled into view just as they were pulling away. 

“Anyway I needed it. Was getting soft.” Paul starts to say something then closes his mouth, “What?” Daryl asks.

“I’d tell you, but it would violate the ‘no fuckery’ rule,” Paul says. His eyes are sparkling with amusement. 

Daryl feels so good about how today went he doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at Paul. He just gives a loud, obnoxious belch and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. It makes Paul’s eyes sparkle again. “What about you? Good day?” he asks.

“Goodish. We’ll be able to expand the growing fields more than we thought.”

Daryl nods; he knew that Paul and Maggie would be out most of the day, which is why he chose today to take Glenn. Maggie wants to turn the areas surrounding the main gates into growing fields. They won’t have to put up walls—light fencing will do. Just enough to keep the average wandering walker out. Nothing that could hold up to a large herd of them but enough so that anyone working the fields could retreat to safety. Paul tells Daryl that extra food is the priority but Maggie thinks it would be possible to grow cotton or hemp as well for clothing. It’s not urgent; there’s plenty of stuff to scavenge materials from curtains to furniture upholstery. But one day it would be useful.

They natter on over dinner and Paul goes and fetches his deck of cards after he clears the table, not even bothering to try and sleep first. They play a few hands.

“You’re fucking cheating, I know you are,” Daryl mutters as he loses his third game. Paul laughs.

“‘Fraid not,” Paul says, “You just suck. We can play something else if you want. Chess, maybe?”

“Oh fuck  _ you _ ,” Daryl mutters, “I ain’t playing no chess with you.” Daryl has finally learned the rules and the basic strategies of the game so Paul stopped going easy on him. He never  _ let  _ Daryl win, even when he was still learning. But he didn’t go out of his way to completely humiliate Daryl the way he does now. The last time they played chess Daryl had ended up flipping the board when it was clear Paul was going to win ten minutes into the game.  _ Oops,  _ he said as Paul laughed so hard Daryl thought he was going to choke. 

“You’re almost as bad as my dad was,” Paul replies, “My mom beat him every single time they played and he would be pissy about it for days. But he still kept challenging her,” he chuckles a little, “Definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.”

Paul hasn’t discussed his past at all since he told Daryl how his family died. Daryl doesn’t know why he loves these little details so much but he does. He wants to know everything about Paul, even boring shit about his parents’ gaming habits. He doesn’t understand why but doesn’t care enough to analyze it. “Was he the one who taught you?”

“Fuck no, my mom did. I ended up being the only one who could beat her. Not often, but I could do it. Which of course made Dad even pissier.”

Daryl studies him, he seems fond as he reports this. Daryl feels awkward—his own father was a piece of shit and hated seeing Daryl do better than him at anything. Once he’d “accidentally” mashed Daryl’s fingers in the car door after Daryl made a shot with his bow that his Dad had failed. 

“But you got along outside that?” Daryl asks.

Paul looks confused, “Yeah? We got along great, actually. The girls outnumbered us, so we needed to stick together when we wanted to do guy shit. Sports, building stuff, and other manly pursuits.”

“Like fighting?”

“No, I learned to fight after the accident. I did gymnastics before. When I was recovering after…” Paul pauses, “Well. I wasn’t exactly in a positive frame of mind. Going to the gym and beating the living hell out of something was how I dealt with it.”

“Makes sense,” Daryl says. He imagines teenage Paul alone in a gym hitting something over and over again. It makes his heart hurt. “Did he know about you? That you was gay?” Daryl isn’t sure why he asks that question. He thinks of his own father again, how he’d ride Daryl and Merle over anything he perceived as “weak” or “sissy”. He also thinks, oddly enough, of Rick. He can’t imagine Rick caring if Carl were gay; can’t imagine it would change anything at all between them. 

Paul seems a little puzzled by the subject shift but answers anyway, “According to him he figured out when I was ten or so,” Paul says, “He went to my mom to let her know and she said she figured it out even sooner. At any rate they both realized it before I did; I think most parents just know. My coming out was actually pretty funny. Got caught naked with a friend of mine. Not the nicest guy, few years older. My dad threw him out and I thought ‘Oh boy, this is when he tells me off for being a fag.’ But he just told me I could do better and gave me the safe sex lecture and told me I was too young for it anyway. It was deeply traumatic for the both of us.”

“How old were you? When he caught you?” Daryl doesn’t know why this conversation is making him so intensely uncomfortable. Paul doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’d just turned fifteen; it wasn’t long before the accident,” Paul says, “I’m glad he knew before he died. And that I knew he knew, and that he didn’t care,” Paul’s expression is fond but tinged with sadness, “He was definitely right about me being too young; I didn’t have actual sex for years after. And I was too young then, I think.”

“Shit, I was younger than that,” Daryl says without thinking, and instantly regrets it. He hasn’t had to tell this story in years and he is perfectly fine with that. 

“Really?” Paul says, eyes sparkling. He looks fucking delighted. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” Daryl says, sweat starting to prickle on the back of his neck. He glances at Paul, who isn’t smirking anymore. Daryl starts to fidget with his sleeves.

“Who was it with?”

“Girl named Deedee Packer. She uh, she was a friend of my brother Merle. Well, she would fuck him in exchange for weed occasionally, so maybe “friend” isn’t the word.”

“Friends with Merle,” Paul says slowly, “How old was she? Merle’s age?”

“She was a year or two older, I think. So…21? 22?”

When he looks up he sees that Paul’s face is perfectly blank. Daryl decides it would be a good idea to stop now- Paul’s gay and probably wouldn’t be interested in the details. Details Daryl must have told hundreds of time over the past thirty years, usually at Merle’s urging and with his help. Merle would talk up Deedee’s dynamite body and big titties and how she was a fucking freak who was into all sorts of nasty shit.  _ She broke little Daryl’s cherry, made him into a man. I had to give her weed to get her to fuck me, what was your secret _ , Merle would carry on in this vein, laughing ugly and loud. Daryl had gotten a lot of high fives and congratulations over the years for his conquest. It got old real quick, and he doesn’t need to get any more. 

So Daryl isn’t sure what compels him to continue talking, “Merle had been gone for a year, he took off as soon as he was eighteen, signed up for the army and was gone. But Deedee…I knowed her for years, since I was a little kid. She always had a soft spot for me, and when Merle left she sorta…looked out for me. Let me come to her place sometimes when my Daddy was in a mood.”

Deedee had lived in a trailer that was even smaller and shittier than this one, but it was hers, paid for by money she made working at the truck stop on 41. It was a mess and she forgot the power bill half the time so there was never any air conditioning. That summer was hotter than all holy hell and the place had a funk of unwashed bodies and reefer.

But it was a place where Daryl’s father never went, so for Daryl it was Paradise, a refuge for when he didn’t feel like hiding out in the woods waiting for Daddy’s temper to cool. When Deedee remembered to pay the power bill there was TV, a tiny black and white that didn’t work half the time and required constant readjusting of the rabbit ears but TV nonetheless. When Daryl came over during the day he’d sit on the couch next to Deedee and the two of them would watch her soaps or football if it was on. On lucky Friday nights when Deedee didn’t have to work they’d watch The Dukes of Hazard, laughing like fools over the Duke brothers’ antics.  She had a crush on Bo Duke, who was Daryl’s favorite as well. When he was twelve Daryl wanted to be just like him, run moonshine and  _ drive _ . 

Daryl doesn’t share that last bit with Paul, it’s stupid kid shit that still makes him cringe. “Anyhow,” Daryl says, “One day I was over, my Daddy was goin’ after me real bad.” Daryl stops, chest tight. The memory has a sharpness, sharper than broken glass and just as apt to cut. In this situation “going after” meant a fist in his face and a busted lip, blood pouring down his front. His father rarely hit him in the face, people in his hometown minded their own business for the most part but too many obvious bruises might get some nosy teacher to start asking questions. Face hitting was for when Daddy was too mad to think straight, for when he just lashed out uncontrollably. Daryl doesn’t remember what his particular offense was, only that it must have been minor. Usually he saw his beatings coming, but this time while he doesn’t remember the cause he does remember being blindsided by the reaction. He remembers cowering on the floor while is Dad screamed that Daryl was a goddamned sissy, to stop crying and be a man.

When he’d arrived at Deedee’s trailer covered in blood and weeping she took him into the bathroom and washed him up, then  gave him a bag of frozen peas to put over his eye, marched him over to the couch and made him put his head in her lap. 

Paul hasn’t said anything. Daryl looks over at him. His face is unreadable. Daryl looks away again and continues, “We watched TV for a bit, Deedee told me Daddy was an asshole, that I weren’t no sissy, I was just sweet and there ain’t nothing wrong with that. Told me I could stay the night, wouldn’t even need to sleep on the couch, I could snuggle up in bed with her if I wanted. Later when we was in bed she told me I was sweet again, gave me a kiss, you know. Things went from there.” 

She fell asleep after but he didn’t. When she woke up the next morning she made him breakfast and told him he was welcome to stay all day if he wanted. She gave him a kiss on a the cheek and a conspiratorial wink then left for work.

“Did you?” Paul asks. 

“Nah,” Daryl says, trying to sound nonchalant. “School started up not long after, had a place to go most of the day.”

Paul waits until it’s clear Daryl has nothing more to say on the subject, then in a gentle voice says, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Of all the responses he expected this one never even crossed his mind. He was actually confused for a few beats, automatically opening his mouth to ask what was there to be sorry for but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth, feeling intensely uncomfortable. His entire life whenever anyone found out about this incident their reaction was to congratulate him, say they wished something like that had happened when they were twelve. Merle thought it was something to brag about. If thinking of it made Daryl sick and panicky that must mean there was something wrong with  _ him _ .

Daryl feels an absurd urge to start crying. He’s able to control it. Finally he just says, “Well. It was a long time ago,” his voice a gruff rasp. 

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter,” Paul says. His voice is still gentle and Daryl feels like something in him is about to shatter.

“I think I’m done with Honesty Hour,” Daryl says before he can.

“Ok,” Paul says in that gentle voice, “Do you want to play another hand, or…?”

Daryl shakes his head, “Gonna turn in, I think. Got any books to read?” 

“Of course.”

************

“Any runs planned with Tara?” Paul asks him a few days later. Daryl shrugs; Glenn wants to get out again as soon as possible but finding days where Maggie is occupied and won’t notice his long absence aren’t easy. Not like he can tell Paul all that. 

“I was going to go on a quick run, hit up that subdivision we found the kittens,” Paul says, “We didn’t get a chance to really go through it. If you’re getting antsy.”

Daryl is surprised, “Thought you was all worried I’d fall on my ass and get eaten by walkers soon as I stepped outside the walls.” Paul looks embarrassed, and Daryl realizes he’s offering so that if Daryl  _ must _ go out then at least he’ll be there to watch over him. It’s equal parts infuriating and endearing, “Don’t need you to babysit me.”

“Of course you don’t,” Paul says with a little eye roll, “But it’s for my own peace of mind. Humor me. Besides, I wanted you to show me how to work your crossbow. Useful skill.” 

It doesn’t take much more pressing for Daryl to relent and agree to go. At the end of the day it’s an excuse to get out of this place and he’ll grab it with both hands.

When they get to the subdivision they go door to door. At each house they do a quick sweep for anything obviously useful—food, medicine, weapons—then grab things that can be used for other purposes. They pay special attention to the garages—grabbing nails, screws, and any tools they can find that aren’t too badly eaten up by rust. Paul even pokes around for shit Daryl would never even think to look for—pens, paper, laundry detergent, toiletries.

“You want to earn endless love and devotion from the women at Hilltop?” Paul says as they go through the bathroom of one house. When Daryl looks up he sees Paul is holding a box of Tampax, “This is how. Some of the ladies call me the Tampon King.”

“That’s not the sort of thing you brag about. Or even mention at all. Ever.”

“You know you wish you had a title that cool. Don’t worry; by royal decree I dub you the Maxipad Knight. Go forth and seek out finest feminine hygiene products in the land.” Paul ducks nimbly aside when Daryl throws a bottle of cologne at his head.

“What a treasure trove of riches this place is,” Paul says a few seconds later. This time when Daryl looks over he sees that Paul has found a box of condoms.

“Don’t you have enough of those? You and Alex a thing again?” Daryl says. He sounds a little pissy in his own ears.

“I told you to stop being so jealous, you just need to say the word. But I must admit that while hope springs eternal I’m not the only person at Hilltop who enjoys sex and would like to avoid some of the nastier side effects.”

Daryl grumbles in reply before leaving to go look through the bedroom. 

**********

They find the gun safe in one of the garages they hit up toward the end of the day. It’s a pretty fucking big one. Daryl raps his knuckles against the door; there’s a combination lock keeping the thing closed, Daryl spins the dial a little in frustration. “Do you think we can get Earl to bust this thing open?” Earl was the blacksmith. He didn’t like to go outside of the Hilltop, which meant they would have to figure out a way to drag this heavy ass thing back with them. 

Paul gives him a look, “Please.” He drops to his knees, “Keep an eye out,” he says and presses his ear against the safe. He starts slowly spinning the dial. Daryl watches him—his eyes are open but he’s not looking at anything, he’s almost in a trance. He keeps his breathing slow and even. 

Daryl feels sweat prick at the back of his neck as he watches Paul’s slender fingers delicately manipulate the safe dial. His focus is so intense Daryl can practically feel it baking off him. Paul is spinning the dial between two numbers now; he closes his eyes and holds his breath. His eye lashes make shadows on his cheekbones. He moves the dial slightly and a grin spreads across his face. He opens his eyes and winks at Daryl before entering in the combination. The safe pops open. “Holy shit,” he says when he sees the contents of the safe.

Daryl shakes himself like a man waking up from a dream. His eyes flick over Paul’s fingers then back up into the safe. “Holy. Fucking. Shit.” 

There are at least a dozen guns inside the safe; half of them are some type of assault rifle. They look like they’re in good shape; their owner maintained them well. 

“Is there ammunition?” Daryl asks, not expecting the answer to be yes. There’s lucky and there’s fucking miraculous. 

“Boxes and boxes of it,” Paul says, “It’s fucking Christmas.” He grins up at Daryl who responds with smile of his own. He can’t help himself. Paul looks away quickly, his cheeks a little pink.

“Come on,” he says, “We won’t find anything else today that can top this. Let’s get ‘em loaded up.”

***************

Paul wasn’t bullshitting about getting a crossbow lesson. They find a good place to stop on their way to the Hilltop and he pulls over. Daryl carves a target onto a nearby tree and tells Paul to give it his best shot. His best shot turns out to be one that goes wild by several yards.

Daryl smirks; Paul may be great at hand to hand and knife work but he can’t shoot for shit. “Here,” Daryl says, demonstrating. “You need to anticipate the kick.” He fires twice in rapid succession. Both arrows hit the target one after another. 

“Showoff,” Paul mutters as Daryl hands him the crossbow. He takes aim again, “This is revenge for all the times I beat you at cards, isn’t it?”

“You’re holding it wrong,” Daryl says, “It needs to be like this.” He goes over and adjust’s Paul’s stance with his own hands, moving his right shoulder back. “You need a looser grip,” Daryl continues, and starts manually adjusting Paul’s fingers as well. When he touches them the memory of Paul delicately manipulating the lock of the safe sparks through his mind. He drops his hand like he’s been burnt, “That better not’ve been a trick to get me to feel you up.”

“No, that was a very unexpected and amazing bonus,” Paul says, grinning. He’s flippant but he looks about as flustered as Daryl feels. Daryl whacks the back of Paul’s head, the other man just laughs and the moment passes.

“Go on,” Daryl says, “Fire away.” His efforts didn’t go to waste, when Paul fires he at least hits the tree. About ten feet above the target, but it’s something. 

When they’re done shooting Daryl retrieves the spent arrows and tells Paul he needs to practice more before he’ll be able to so much attempt hitting a moving target.

“Maybe you need to adjust my stance again,” Paul says hopefully. 

“Dream on.”

******************

It takes more than a week for them to find a good day to take Glenn out again. Paul is unhappy when Daryl tells him; protesting that he just was out last week and Paul can take him later. “What did I say about not needin’ a babysitter?” He slaps his leg, “The leg’s fine. If I need to run I can.” Not very far, but Daryl sees no reason to tell Paul that. The other man is forced to let Daryl go. He feels Paul’s eyes on his back all the way to the gates of Hilltop and tries not to feel guilty. 

Their second session is much shorter than their first one; Glenn requires no assistance in locating the three walkers Tara has prepared. 

“That’s kinda creepy, actually,” Daryl says after the last walker falls down, “Are you starting to hear better?” Daryl has some vague notion that blind people start getting super hearing to compensate for the loss of sight. 

“No, I just pay more attention to what I hear,” he says, wiping sweat from his face, “And I trust what I hear. It’s hard to explain.”

“Well however it works you’re doing real good,” Daryl replies. He’s nowhere near what he was back when he could see but Daryl thinks he’s a damn bit better than some of the softer members of Hilltop and most of Alexandria. 

“Yeah,” Tara says, sounding both surprised and impressed.

“I’ve still got a ways to go,” Glenn says, but he looks pleased.

They head out not long after, Glenn walking ahead and sweeping his walking stick in front of him. He freezes suddenly.

“What?” Daryl asks, hand going to his crossbow, “You hear somethin’?”

Glenn frowns, “No. I just…does it feel like someone’s watching us?”

Daryl exchanges a glance with Tara and concentrates. The woods are quiet but not abnormally so. Both he and Tara scan the trees and see nothing out of place.

“It’s nothing, I guess,” Glenn says doubtfully when they tell him. They load up into the car and Glenn is still stiff, head cocked to one side and listening until they start driving back home. 

**********************

They’ve just finished their fourth session and are leaning by the car having a drink of water. Glenn is sweaty and looks tired but content. He’s graduated to walkers without chains. Daryl and Tara still remove their jaws and arms and send them at him one at a time. Glenn is different. There’s a confidence to him that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. Daryl thinks the confidence is the real cause of his improvement. 

“When do you want to go out again?” Daryl asks, taking a sip of water.

Glenn shrugs, “Might not be able to do it for a while. I’ve got some things that I need to work on at the Hilltop. I think we should have…” he frowns, “Hall monitors? I don’t know what to call them. Have people that are steady be in charge of keeping track of ten residents or so. That way if we have to gather everyone up or something happens we can be sure to get everyone.”

“Be hard to sneak out if there’s someone looking over your shoulder,” Tara says.

“Well there is that.”

Daryl fiddles with his water bottle, “Maybe we can stop doing this before too long,” he says. He’s perfectly willing to do this for as long as Glenn needs but it’s getting harder to lie to Paul about it. At least Daryl’s leg has gotten strong enough he’s able to go without the brace anymore, which makes Paul worry less. 

He expects Glenn to angry, but he looks serene, “Maybe we can. I think I just need a few more, then— “ He goes rigid with alarm, “There’s a car coming.”

“What?” Tara says, unholstering her pistol. Daryl grabs his crossbow. A few seconds later he hears it too—sound of a car engine off in the distance and getting closer. Daryl considers their options—run or stay and fight. He looks nervously at Glenn—the kid can handle some crippled walkers but people with guns are a different matter.

The engine gets louder, Daryl hopes the car will pass them by but it doesn’t. “Stay behind me,” he tells Glenn. The car comes into view.

“Fuck,” Daryl says.

“What?” Glenn asks.

“It’s one of the cars from Hilltop,” Daryl replies. 

“Fucking fuck,” Glenn says; then “Please tell me it isn’t Maggie.”

Daryl can’t tell him that, because the car is close enough that Daryl can see her riding shotgun. “Daryl?” Glenn says.

“Sorry, kid,” he says. 

The car slows and pulls in behind their own vehicle. Maggie steps out and slams the door shut. She’s followed by Bryan and Marco. She is  _ pissed. _

“Having fun out here?” she asks Glenn.

**************

Daryl drives on the way back, Tara is still crying too hard. Daryl is upset as well, but it manifests itself in anger rather than tears. Maggie had a lot to say to both of them. She had even more to say to Glenn. The whole thing devolved into a four way shouting match while Bryan and Marco stood awkwardly to the side. It was a pretty ugly shouting match as those things went.

Glenn stews in the backseat. Maggie had wanted him to ride with her and he refused. That caused another shouting match. But Glenn is stubborn as fuck when he wants to be and she is forced to relent. Maggie is following behind them, Daryl feels like a wayward prisoner being escorted back into holding.

Part of him wants to slam on the gas and drive as far away from the fucking Hilltop as they can. Get as close to Alexandria as the roads would allow then go the rest of the way on foot. 

“How did she know where we were,” Glenn murmurs in the backseat. Daryl doesn’t answer but he has a pretty good fucking idea. Another fresh spike of rage goes through him. 

They pull into Hilltop and Paul is there waiting for them. Daryl takes one look at his face and immediately knows he was right about how Maggie found them out. She wouldn’t have been able to follow them out there unnoticed but that sneaky little fuck could do it in his sleep. 

He remembers their previous session. Glenn saying he felt like they were being watched. The fucker had found them out a while ago and just  _ waited _ for them to go out again so Maggie could catch them in the act. He’s out of the car as soon as he cuts the engine, rage tightening his shoulders. Paul is pale and his lips are tight. He doesn’t look any happier with Daryl than Daryl is with him. 

“You complete and utter  _ fuck _ ,” snarls Daryl without any preamble. 

Paul stiffens and goes even paler. He flicks his gaze to behind Daryl’s shoulder; Maggie is slamming her car door shut and snarling something at Glenn. Both look like they’re spoiling for a fight. “We’re not talking about this here,” Glenn says, loud enough for Daryl to hear. Glenn pulls away and walks stiffly toward Barrington house. Maggie throws one angry look at Daryl before she follows him.

That look is enough to make his boiling anger explode and it’s all he can do to keep from hitting the man in front of him. Instead he turns and storms off, too angry to speak. 

“Daryl! Daryl wait,” Paul calls after him.

“Go fuck yourself, you nosy little shit,” Daryl snaps back. Paul catches up to him easily and gets in front of him to block his way. Daryl tries to shove around him and Paul puts a hand on his chest.

Something in Daryl snaps; he knocks Paul’s hand away and crowds right up into his face. Hegrowls “I will tear your fucking arm off if you touch me again.”

Paul holds his ground; he doesn’t take a step back but plants his feet down firmly and stretches to his full height. “You’ll be on your ass picking up your teeth if you try,” Paul fires back.

“Glenn needed this!”

“Oh he needed to go on some completely idiotic field trip and pretend like he can still fight walkers and risk the lives of the people looking after him—“

Daryl sees red at Paul’s flippant dismissal of what Glenn has been trying to do, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Daryl barks at him.

“I think I’m the guy who’s trying to make this community safe! I think Maggie is my leader and she’s my  _ friend! _ ” Paul’s voice is low until the last word, which is almost a shout.

“And what the fuck am I? You couldn’t ask me first, you had to go tattle to your mommy—“

“You’re goddamned right I did, what in the HELL were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking he’s a grown ass man and he ain’t no prisoner so if he wants go outside he don’t need nobody’s permission—“ Daryl realizes he’s shouting.

“He’s not thinking straight! He’s  _ upset  _ about what happened, this entire place  _ needs _ him for his brains not his—“

“He don’t owe this community jack SHIT! It’s because of this place we got tangled up with the Saviors, how he got blinded—“ Daryl’s being unfair, he knows he is, but he can’t help himself.

“Don’t you dare put that on us!” Paul’s voice is louder than Daryl’s, “You people suggested it, you were eager to go kick some ass—“

They’ve gotten even closer, they’re nose to nose now and when Paul shouts Daryl can feel hot breath against his face and he has never been this enraged in his entire life. His heart feels like it’s going to explode in his chest and he can barely catch his breath. He is hyperaware of Paul, the exact shade of grey-green of his eyes, the vein pulsing in his forehead, his parted lips curled into a snarl, he can smell his sweat and the soap he uses for his hair. Daryl feels something inside him build, something stretched to its limits and about to explode.

“Jesus?” an uncertain voice calls out, “Is everything ok?”

It breaks Daryl’s fog of rage. When he looks to see who was haling Paul he realizes they’ve got a fucking audience. Most are looking at Daryl with disgust and anger. Christ fucking wept, they probably thought they were witnessing  _ domestic abuse _ . The big ugly redneck menacing poor innocent little “Jesus”. Daryl wants to laugh. He wants to punch Paul in the face along with anyone giving him that look.

Paul pulls back from Daryl. Paul’s shaking and Daryl realizes he is as well. “Everything’s fine,” Paul says. The surrounding audience doesn’t look like they believe him. It’s too much for Daryl, he marches back to the car, fishes out his crossbow, and heads for the gates.

“Where are you going?” Paul yells at him.

“Out! You best not follow me this time unless you want an arrow in your ass.”

Paul doesn’t follow.

 

************

  
  



	11. Now

Rick drives and Daryl rides shotgun on the drive out to Collum Airfield. It’s just the two of them; Michonne is riding with Dwight, Donnie, and Laura. Both men are quiet; although Daryl catches Rick looking at him from time to time like he’s about to say something. He never does, though.

The drive is maddeningly slow; charging in with their brights on is a good way to announce their presence for miles around. Instead the cars leave the Sanctuary in caravan fashion; Rick leading and only using low-beams. Daryl wants to get out and run, he feels like he would get there faster. His fingers drum out a tattoo on the stock of his crossbow and he shifts restlessly in his seat.

“How are you holding up?” Rick asks, the first words he’s spoken since they’ve started the drive.

“I’m good.”

Rick looks skeptical, “Are you? If he’s still alive you won’t help him by losing your shit. Especially if this goes down like how we think it will. Can you stay cool?”

Daryl thinks a long time before he answers, “No, I ain’t good. But I can stay cool for as long as it takes.” He’s not exaggerating; even though calm isn’t the right word for what he’s feeling. Part of him—a big part—is still boiling away with terror for Paul and an urge to do violence but it is…contained. Not forever, he knows that; but long enough for them to find out whether Paul is alive or dead. After that it doesn’t really matter. 

Rick is quiet, then says, “Alright,” he pauses and says, “He’s valuable; he knows a lot about all five communities, their defenses and resources. And he’s smart. I don’t believe they’d kill him, not this soon. We’re going to get him back.”

Daryl closes his eyes, his grip on his “cool” starting to slip, “Don’t. You can’t know that.”

“You know I said that to him before he went the Sanctuary to get Michonne and Carl out,” Rick swallows, “I’ll be honest, I thought you were dead already. You looked most of the way there when they took you. He said you weren’t and he was going to get all three of you. I said he couldn’t know that. He said I couldn’t know you weren’t.”

“ _ Rick,”  _ Daryl says, “Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t. Not now.”

Thankfully Rick listens to him and stays quiet. Daryl stares out the window; dawn is still at least an hour away and the window is nothing but a black mirror. His mind goes back to what Rick said about Paul—that he had gone to the Sanctuary with complete confidence that all three of them were still alive and not only that he would succeed in freeing them.  _ The only things you can control are what’s in your mind.  _ He thinks Paul said something like that to him once, or read it aloud from the  _ Meditations.  _ Daryl thinks that’s bullshit; or at least it is for him. He can’t stop the memories that come to him. 

*************

_ Daryl wasn’t sure how long he’d been at the Sanctuary when he heard the rattle of the door and the laughing of the Saviors. _

_ “Daryl?” Michonne asked, “What’s happening?” _

_ Daryl listened to the taunts and jeers of the guards. He recognized Wade and Floyd. Wade’s voice was the loudest, that motherfucker was meaner than cat piss. The door on Daryl’s other side slammed open. Daryl staggered over to the wall and to his relief there was a gap on that side as well. He could hear everything, it was like he was in the room himself.  _

_ The prisoner was whimpering nonstop, and gasped out, “Please! Please let me go!” Daryl knew the voice. It was Paul “Jesus” Rovia. Daryl hadn’t seen him since the night they raided the Saviors. _

_ Wade let out an ugly laugh. “What’s the rush, pretty boy? I think Negan would be very interested in talking with you. Mostly about how the fuck you found this place.” _

_ Daryl had always found Wade disgusting but there was something extra about his tone when talking to Paul that made Daryl’s skin want to crawl off his body and go hide somewhere far away.  _

_ Paul sobbed, “It w-w-was an accident, I swear-” _

_ Daryl heard the loud  _ crack _ of a slap, and Paul cried out. Daryl winced. Paul was blubbering harder and harder, babbling about how he was just looking for a friend who went missing from the Hilltop. _

_ “God, shut up and stop being such a pussy,” the Floyd said, disgust in his voice. Paul quieted, but Daryl could still hear him sniffling, “Wade, lay off him. He’ll keep until Negan gets back, I don’t want to rough him up too much.”  _

“ _ Ah he can take it,” Wade said, “Can’t ya? Fags like you like the rough stuff.” _

_ “Wade,” Floyd said, “We’ve got more important things to deal with.” _

_ “You’re no fun,” Wade muttered. _

_ Daryl heard the door clang shut, and the retreating footsteps of the guards down the hallway. As soon as they were gone Daryl called out Paul’s name. _

_ “Daryl?” his voice was completely unruffled, “Where are you?” _

_ “Follow the pipe, there’s a gap—” Daryl heard footsteps, then Paul’s voice much closer. _

_ “Are you alright?” Paul asked, brisk and business-like. _

_ Daryl was taken aback; that Paul was asking  _ him _ if he was alright. “I’m fine, what about you?” _

_ “My six year old sister had a meaner punch than tattooed fuck,” Paul said dismissively, “Is Michonne in there with you?” _

_ “No, she’s in the cell next to me—” _

_ “Can you fight? Glenn said you were shot.” _

_ “Paul, what the fuck is going on?” _

_ “I’m here to bust you out, of course. We’re going to have to go sooner than I wanted, but Negan’s gone to Alexandria already and that is not fucking good.” _

_ Daryl just sat there hunched of the gap in the wall with his mouth open. “You’re here to  _ what _ —” _

_ “Patience, Mr Dixon, I’m in the middle of something.” _

_ Daryl was about to ask what the hell he meant, bust them out, they were in the middle of the Sanctuary and Paul had been  _ caught _ already… _

_ Then he remembered that he and Rick had  _ also  _ caught Paul and locked him up.  _

_ “Daryl?” Michonne’s voice, “Daryl what’s going on?” _

_ Daryl crawled over to her side and told her what had happened. _

_ Michonne was silent, then, “I won’t leave without Carl,” there was something savage in her voice.  _

_ “Do you think I will either?” Daryl snorted, “We just need to get out of these cells first.”  _

_ “If we escape they might hurt him, ask Jesus what he’s planning—” _

_ She didn’t get any further, because there was the sound of the outer door opening, then of boots against a concrete floor and a low whistle. _

_ Daryl broke out into a cold sweat when he heard the clatter of a key in the door of Paul’s cell. He scrambled over to the other side of his cell, pressing his face against the gap.  _

_ “W-w-what do you want?” Daryl heard Paul whimper.  _

_ “Why, just to see if you want anything,” Wade said, voice like oil. “You’re a guest here, after all.” _

_ “Can I have a glass of water?” _

_ “Maybe. What do I get in return?” _

_ “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

_ “Oh come on, Pretty Boy,”  Wade oozed, “I think if I got you something, you’d owe me, how about it?” _

_ Paul didn’t answer, and Daryl strained to hear what was going on. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest and he was overwhelmed with helplessness. He heard Paul yell out to stop and Daryl started believing that Paul wasn’t acting.  _

_ Wade was laughing, “Oh now don’t be like that, this doesn’t have to be—“ His voice was suddenly cut off with a loud choking noise. Daryl jerked in surprise. The noises got louder and louder, Daryl could hear the sound of boots slapping against the floor and the meaty thud of flesh hitting flesh. Then everything was quiet. _

_ Two minutes later the door to Daryl’s cell opened and Paul Rovia was standing there, outlined in the light from the hall. Daryl stared at him.  _

_ “What the fuck,” Daryl said. _

_ “Nice to see you too, Mr Dixon,” Paul said. He wedged the door open, stepped the few feet inside until he was inches from Daryl’s face, then dropped to his knees so fast Daryl took a step back in surprise.  _

_ “Daryl? Be a dear and step a little closer to the light so I can see what the fuck I’m doing,” Paul said, and Daryl realized he was examining the cuff around Daryl’s ankle.  _

_ “Jesus?” Michonne called from the next room, “Are you ok?” _

_ “I’ll live,” he said, producing a key ring from his pockets and studying the half dozen keys on it for a few seconds. “Fuck it,” he muttered, and began to pry the keyring itself apart, pocketing the keys.  _

_ Daryl was quivering with tension, wanting to get his hand on a weapon, wondering when another guard would come. He glanced down, Paul had bent the keyring out and then thrust it into the cuff’s keyhole.  _

_ “How are we going to get to Carl?” Daryl asked, eyes glued to Paul’s fingers as they deftly manipulated his makeshift lock pick.  _

_ “Carefully.” The cuff opened with a click, “Let’s get Michonne first,” Paul said, getting to his feet.  _

_ One of the keys actually worked for this door, and when they opened it Daryl saw Michonne for the first time since Ogden had beaten her. _

_ She looked like shit, one eye was still swollen and puffy, her lips so dry and cracked they were bleeding, the cut on her cheek hadn’t even been stitched, just closed up up with butterfly bandages. It left the side of her face crooked and distorted.  _

_ Paul was struck dumb briefly at the sight of her, and his face hardened and he dropped down to go to work on her chains. “We have to move fast,” he said, “They know I’m here, I couldn’t think of a quicker way to get in. I saw Negan leave with the Saviors, if we don’t get to Alexandria soon Rick’s dead, and a whole lot of other people.” _

_ Daryl stared at him, “I’ll explain later,” Paul said, opening Michonne’s cuff. “Now we just need to get Carl and get out before this entire place is on high alert. We’re lucky enough that Negan took his best fighters with him, at least.” _

_ “You got a plan?” Michonne asked, bending down to rub her ankle. The flesh there was raw and blistered.  _

_ “Carl’s a few floors up. Dwight said he’s staying with Negan’s wives, and they’re under heavy guard,” Paul said, leading the two of them out, “I’m going to go get him out, you two need to arrange us some transport. They have cars outside by the gates, get one that works.” _

_ On their way out Daryl glanced inside Paul’s cell and saw Wade’s body. Its hands twitched, it was about to reanimate. Its pants were around its ankles and there was a chain wrapped around its throat. Its face was black and its tongue poked out. Daryl thought about what the piece of shit was trying to do and had an urge to go spit on it. Daryl was glad his death looked like it had been painful.  _

_ ****************** _

The rest of that night is a blur of blood and destruction. Once he and Michonne had gotten out of the makeshift prison and armed themselves they had carved their way through the Sanctuary, weeks of pent up rage from their captivity fueling them. One of his few clear memories is of the three of them standing outside the Sanctuary, Michonne asking Paul how he was going to get to Carl. Paul had taken off his boots, tied them together, slung them over his shoulders and then started climbing up the side of the building like fucking Spider-man; using the cracks in the brick and exposed piping to pull himself up. 

Daryl wants to tell Rick that if Paul hasn’t escaped on his own by now he’s dead or they’ve injured him so bad he will be soon.

_ You can’t know that,  _ a voice in his mind says.  _ Ogden’s not an idiot, he might know just how fucking sneaky Paul can be and is keeping a better eye on him.  _

He’s jerked out of his thoughts by Rick slowing the car down then killing the engine. They’ve arrived near the airfield. The sky is just starting to lighten, dawn isn’t far off. They’re still several miles out; they’ll go the rest of the way on foot. The air traffic control tower is the worry—if the Rogue Saviors have any brains whatsoever they have someone in that tower keeping watch. They’ll be less conspicuous on foot. 

“Are you ready for this?” Rick asks him.

“Yeah,” then, in a quiet voice, “It should just be me. This is the riskiest part—“

“It’s also the most important part,” Rick answers, “It won’t work without me. I keep telling you I owe him. Everything,” he looks out where Michonne is getting out of her car, Daryl can see the muscles in his throat work, “Besides,it’s not just about him. It’s about taking these people out. They’re a threat to all the communities. We’ll try and take them alive or give them a chance to join us but if they won’t we’ll do what we gotta do.”

Daryl nods. He glances out, the other groups are assembling. Donnie is leaning in and whispering something to Dwight. “You sure about this?” Daryl asks, eyes not leaving the two men.

“Sure as I can be,” Rick answers. He’s also staring at Donnie and Dwight, “Come on,” he says to Daryl, “We don’t have much time.”

********

Collum Airfield is small, with only two runways. Before the outbreak it had only been used for short flights, sky tours, and flying lessons. The north end is bordered by a granite quarry filled with water. It’s surrounded by an iron fence in all other directions. What was the main terminal is barricaded by a heavy tanker that looks like it was once used for fueling. 

Rick goes over the basics of the plan before they set out. It’s a simple one by necessity—the three groups will split up and sneak in from all directions save the north side, as the quarry was an effective barrier. Dwight said one of the reasons Negan had abandoned the airfield was because it was simply too big to effectively guard against the living. It was all about stealth, Rick said. In and out, quick and quiet.

“Everyone know what to do?” Rick asks, looking at Maggie and Michonne who are leading the other two groups. Maggie has her honor guard as well Laura. Michonne leads the second group, which consists of Sasha, Rosita, Heath, Siddiq, and Claudia and Toby, the two Saviors who had asked if Negan was coming back. Rick will lead the third group consisting of Daryl, Dwight, Donnie, and the rest of their Savior volunteers. Before they part Rick takes Michonne’s hand and squeezes it. Then the groups split up.

The sky is grey, it’s almost dawn. It’s light enough to find their way but hopefully still too dark for any lookouts to spot them at such a distance. Rick takes point, with Daryl and Dwight behind him. Donnie and the Saviors bring up the rear. They move out quickly, jogging along the road running parallel to the airport. It’s choked with abandoned cars. A few walkers trapped inside reach out and grab at them as they pass by. There are no other signs of people and Daryl starts to fear that they were wrong about everything; that there would be no one here and they’d be back to where they started. 

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when they reach a downed plane just opposite the main terminal gates. What’s left of the pilot stirs and tries to drag itself out. They ignore it, it’s not worth the energy to put it down. Rick leans over one of the plane’s crumpled wings and peers at the terminal through binoculars. “It’s quiet,” he says handing the binoculars to Daryl, “Take a look.”

Daryl looks through them, scanning the grounds. He sees a flash of movement at the gates, someone is there. “Where is everyone?” Daryl mutters. 

Dwight comes and settles down on Rick’s other side, “Maybe too quiet.”

This is when Daryl hears the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him. He freezes, and Donnie says, “None of you move. Rick, if you or Daryl move I’m going to shoot the other one. Dwight if  _ you _ try anything I’m just going to do you right now.”


	12. Then

When Daryl walks into the trailer he is hit with the smell of cigarette smoke. Paul is sat at the kitchen table, Daryl’s ashtray in front of him and a cigarette in his hand. He’s wearing a grey cardigan that looks like it originally belonged to an overweight octogenarian and is rumpled and haunted in a way Daryl’s never seen him before. They regard each other in silence.

When he stormed out earlier Daryl hadn’t had a particular destination in mind. He had some vague notions of finding a place to hunker down for the night but realized he was being an idiot. Aside from the risk from walkers it was cold as fuck out and getting even colder after the sun set. He debated on whether he should move out of the trailer, but the hell of it was there was nowhere to move _too._ Back into the house he’d have Maggie’s anger to deal with. He could try for Alexandria, but the roads are still shit. He’d have to walk or go on horseback at least part of the way. Mad as he is he isn’t about to just steal one of the horses and his leg still isn’t one hundred percent. He could easily see it giving out during a long walk. Eventually he headed back to the trailer. If he was going to keep living at Hilltop he and Paul would have to settle some things. A big part of him is fixing to finish their earlier fight, just pick up where they left off. Maybe clear out some books so they have the space to knock each other around some.

Now that he sees Paul sat at the table he feels the urge to fight bleed away. Not the anger, he’s still mad as hell. “Thought it was against house rules,” Daryl says, gesturing to the cigarettes.

Paul shrugs, “I’m making an exception.” He offers Daryl the pack, “Light ‘em up, just this once.” Paul leans back in his chair, staring vaguely at the ceiling.

Daryl sits opposite him, shakes a cigarette out, and puts it between his lips. “Got a light?” Still continuing his fascinating perusal of the trailer ceiling, Paul digs around in the pocket of his cardigan and tosses Daryl a book of matches. They are of course Daryl’s own matches, and the last he knew they were in the pocket of his jacket. He doesn’t give Paul the satisfaction of pointing this out, just lights his cigarette and tucks them back into his pocket where they belong.

They sit in silence. Daryl watches as Paul takes deep drags off of his cigarette, cheeks hollowing and his Adam’s apple rippling in his throat. When he blows it out his mouth contorts, and a series of perfect rings float out, twisting and dancing before they disintegrate.

“Didn’t know you were a smoker,” Daryl says.

“I got in the habit when I was in prison. Quit when I got out. But tonight I needed one.”

Daryl lets out a noncommittal grumble. Paul lowers his head so he’s staring at the table. He crushes his cigarette into the ashtray and looks Daryl in the eye,“I’m sorry,” Paul says, “For not coming to you first. I was upset.”

“Ok,” Daryl says.

The corner of Paul’s mouth crooks into a smile, “You don’t make it easy, do you? Was that ‘ok’ meant to say ‘we’re cool’ or ‘go fuck yourself’? I honestly can’t tell. You can be very hard to read sometimes, Mr Dixon.”

“Don’t call me that,” Daryl says.

“Daryl.”

Daryl shifts. Even though he asked for it something about the way Paul says his name makes his heart pulse faster. He definitely hasn’t stopped being angry. “What exactly did _you_ have to be upset about?” Daryl asks.

Paul just stares at him, “Well you did lie to my fucking face several times,” he says.

Daryl hates the flash of guilt that triggers despite everything. He looks away, “Can you blame me? Glenn didn’t want Maggie to know. You ran and tattled as soon as you found out.”

“Well if Glenn’s a _grownass man_ ,” Paul lowers his voice and imitates Daryl’s accent when he says that, “He should be able to talk to his wife about stuff like this.”

“It ain’t that simple,” Daryl says, voice starting to rise along with his urge to fight. His emotions keep whipping around, he wants to grab the flimsy card table between them and toss it to the side and just… _grab_ him. Shake him until his teeth rattle, until he actually _listens_ to what Daryl has to say. “Glenn’s my friend,” Daryl says instead, “More than that, he’s _family_.”

“And Maggie isn’t?” Paul says.

“This ain’t about her! This is about Glenn facing his shit and learning to deal with it. He can’t do that coddled behind these walls.”

Paul raises his hand, “Daryl,” he says, looking tired, “I’m sorry, ok? I don’t want to argue with you about this. Maggie and Glenn can hash it out, it’s between the two of them.”

Daryl _does_ want to argue, “You ratting me out isn’t between them. It’s between us.”

Paul presses his lips together and his nostrils flare. Daryl can tell the other man also wants a fight. He doesn’t give it to Daryl, though, “You said Glenn’s your friend. Well Maggie is _mine_. I haven’t got a lot of those.”

“Everyone is your fucking friend,” Daryl snaps.

Paul doesn’t answer, Daryl can see he’s struggling, “Fine. Maybe it’s like you said, she’s family. Or could be. I don’t fucking know, I don’t remember what that’s like. But I don’t talk to anyone else here about the stuff I talk about with Maggie,” he swallows, “Or with you. It wasn’t just Glenn I was worried about.”

“I told you I don’t need no babysitter,” Daryl growls at him. Paul expressing concern for him makes him even angrier. Paul saying he can’t talk to other people about the things he talks about with Daryl does the same. Because _Daryl_ hasn’t been able to talk to anyone the way he’s been able to talk to Paul since they started living together. Daryl told him about how he lost his virginity; he hasn’t even told _Carol_ about that.

“No, you don’t need a babysitter,” Paul says. He sounds bitter, “But if something had happened to Glenn would you have been able to live with yourself?”

“Do you honestly think that never crossed my fucking mind?” Daryl says, “It was worth the risk. Better than him trying to go out himself; I told you he’s got a set on ‘im and that he’s done shit almost as crazy. Better than him letting all this shit get to him and just…fading away again.”

“And this risky as hell plan was the _only_ way you could help him with that?”

“It was what he _asked_ me to do. Risky as hell or not it was _something._ Didn’t hear you coming up with any ideas,” Daryl shoots back.

“Didn’t realize it was my job.”

“But it _is_ your job to decide where he can and can’t go.”

Paul doesn’t answer, just lets out a frustrated noise and reaches across the table to snag out another cigarette from the pack. He puts it between his lips and gives Daryl a questioning look. Daryl retrieves his matches from his pocket. Knowing they’ll probably vanish again if Daryl hands them to Paul he tears a match off, strikes it, and holds it out. Paul stares at him for a bit then leans forward, sticking the cigarette into the flames. Daryl watches as he takes several deep breaths, puffing out blue smoke. He leans back while Daryl blows the match out. Daryl’s own cigarette is done, so he stubs it out in the ashtray and lights up another.

The two men smoke and study each other from across the table. Paul looks away eventually and says, “So what now?”

“Now you agree to not be a fucking snitch in the future.”

Paul’s eyes flash when he turns them back on Daryl, “Do _I_ get to request anything? If so then maybe you could agree not to lie to me about shit. I’d rather you tell me straight up to fuck off.”

A thousand answers come to him in response. The first of which is to tell him to fuck off right now. But Daryl holds it in. On some level he realizes that he’s so angry partly because he feels guilty for lying to Paul. That the other man has a point—trust goes both ways. “Ok,” Daryl says, then, “We’re cool. And I’m sorry I lied to you. It wasn’t about you; I’d ‘a done the same with anyone.”

Paul’s face twists and he looks deeply unhappy for a second before his expression goes blank. “Fair enough.” He waits to see if Daryl has anything else to say; and Daryl gets another flash of that unhappy face before it’s replaced by an odd, bitter smile. Paul crushes his cigarette out in the ashtray and says, “I’m going to bed. Smoke away; just when you’re done open some windows to let the place air out then take the ashtray outside”

Something about that smile makes Daryl’s heart clench and his anger fade. Instead he just feels like the world’s biggest asshole. When Paul gets up and heads for his room Daryl wants to tell him to stop, come back, and maybe play cards for a bit. But he doesn’t; he just sits and smokes cigarette after cigarette for the next hour.

************

It’s impossible to avoid someone at the Hilltop, the place is just too small. Daryl solves this problem by waiting until he hears Paul in his morning shower before slipping out. Since Paul isn’t the only one he’s trying to avoid he leaves Hilltop altogether.

The area surrounding Hilltop is good hunting country; he finds some dense patches of woodland to creep through looking for tracks. It’s ridiculously easy; he practically trips over the deer he’s tracking not long after he set out. The dead may being roaming around devouring everything in sight but the wildlife is still coming back thick and heavy.

The whole thing doesn’t eat up nearly as much time as he would have liked, even taking field dressing into account. Too soon he’s on his way back to Hilltop, deer carcass slung over his shoulders. He’s a bloody, sticky mess by the time he gets back and Miss Dina probably won’t wash his clothes for all the batteries in creation.

When he gets back to the trailer Paul isn’t there and there’s a note on the kitchen table.

_Out, be back tomorrow AM. -P_

Daryl stares at this terse message, it slowly dawning on him that Paul must be trying to avoid him as well. He hadn’t been caterwauling away in the shower this morning, he was probably trying to sneak out before Daryl woke up. Daryl feels angry even though he’d done the exact same thing; even though he had been _hoping_ Paul would be busy elsewhere so he wouldn’t have to talk to him tonight.

Paul isn’t back yet when Daryl wakes up in the morning. Daryl finds himself lingering at the trailer despite the fact that it would be easy to make an escape before Paul returned and it’s not like he wants to talk to the other man anyway.

He’s just getting ready to leave when there’s a nock on the door. Glenn is at his door again, and Daryl gets a flash of deja vu to the day he asked Daryl for help learning to kill walkers. This is why Daryl says, “No,” before anything else. Glenn smiles a little.

“I’m not going to ask you to do anything worse than take a walk with me.”

Daryl grumbles skeptically but goes to fetch his jacket anyway; the days have gotten cold. The two men walk slowly through the Hilltop in silence. “Maggie wants to talk to you,” Glenn says after a while, “Clear the air. She’s already had a talk with Tara.”

Daryl studies his face, “She talked with you?”

Glenn’s smile is strained, “We’re uh…we’re working on it. I get why she’s upset, she gets why I did what I did,” he shrugs his shoulders and says, “There’s no good answer.”

“Yeah, it’s a shit situation all around,” Daryl agrees. At the end of the day no one could change the fact that this new world was a shitty and dangerous one and Glenn has a pretty fucking big disadvantage when it comes to living in it.

Glenn lets out a noise that’s almost a laugh, “Yeah. Completely bitch nuts, as Abe would say,” he looks sad, “I miss him, you know. I miss everyone.” Daryl’s not sure if Glenn’s referring to missing all their people who have died over the years or the rest of the family spread out over three communities or both.

They walk in silence for a while before Daryl says, “Where’s Maggie?” He wants to clear the air as well, as soon as possible. He’s tired of missing people, it’s stupid to do it when they’re right here and the only thing keeping them from talking is stubbornness.

*************

Daryl finds Maggie in the stables, tending to the horses.

“Glenn said you wanted to talk to me,” Daryl says when she takes notice of him.

“I did,” she answers. Her tone is measured and Daryl can see she’s still angry, though not necessarily just at him.

Daryl shifts on his feet, “I’m here.”

Maggie takes a deep breath and what she says surprises him, “I can’t fucking do this by myself,” she gestures around her, “Any of it. And I can’t do it if I have to wonder if people I’m supposed to trust are off doing stuff that’s dangerous or…” she looks at him and Daryl thinks she might start crying, “Not _one_ of you trusted me, or tried to talk to me first.”

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, remembering how Paul said he was upset that Daryl had lied to him more than anything else. “Look, I was just tryin’ to help him,” Daryl says. He feels like shit; after all he understands why Maggie is upset. He tells her the same thing he told Paul, “I thought it was a bad idea too, but it was _something._ He didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’m always worried about him,” she says, matter-of-fact. She looks back at her horse, strokes its cheek for a few moments. Daryl looks at her and remembers the girl he met outside of Hershel’s farm several lifetimes ago. Charging out of the woods “like Zorro” on a horse with a baseball bat and killing the walker attacking Andrea. Finally she says, “I don’t mean to coddle him. It’s not like how he thinks, I don’t think he’s helpless, or… _less_ than he was before. But after everything happened…Beth, the baby, him getting hurt…I’m so fucking scared to lose him too. This place…in the beginning all I could think was ‘He needs a place where he can be safe. A place he never has to leave, where I can take care of him,’” she looks down, “You know how Glenn is. He wants to take care of everybody else. Doesn’t like it when you try to do the same for him. All I want is for him to be safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” Daryl says, “Not anymore.”

“Do you remember that calendar Beth had at the prison? The one she used to count the days without incident.”

Daryl blinks at this shift of subject, “I remember,” he says, voice thick. It still hurts to think of her.

“I’m done with thinking like that,” Maggie says with a fierceness in her voice, “Of counting the days until the next disaster. Rick said something to me before he left; that if all four communities worked together we could make a world where we could stop surviving and start living. He doesn’t…he shouldn’t _need_ to worry about what he’d do if we have to go out there again.”

“He _does_ , though,” Daryl says quietly, “He can’t stop himself. He’s got balls but he’s _scared_ , not just for himself. He needed to face it somehow.”

Maggie makes a frustrated noise, “Did he _have_ to face in the riskiest way possible?”

“Paul asked me the same question. I don’t know what the answer is. Glenn said you were working on it.”

Maggie smiles with little humor, “That’s one way to put it.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Daryl says, “Both of you.”

“I hope so,” Maggie gives the horse a pat, “Speaking of Jesus, before he left yesterday we talked. I’m sorry things are awkward between the two of you now. I never wanted that.”

“It’s fine,” Daryl says quickly, “We said sorry and don’t want to hit each other anymore. We don’t even have to look at each other if we don’t want to.”

Maggie gives him a look he can’t read, “That’s what I was talking about. I know he likes living with you and considers you a friend,” she pauses, “It’s hard to see, what with how friendly he is, but he’s actually lonelier than he lets on. Keeps most people at a distance.”

Guilt floods Daryl at those words. He remembers Paul saying he hasn’t got many friends and how Daryl had brushed him off. He thinks of all the interactions between Paul and the members of Hilltop, starting with the very first one. When they were bringing him back to Hilltop for the first time and ran across the car belonging to the scavenging party. Rick telling Maggie to shoot Paul if anything went wrong. Paul hadn’t been afraid, just told them to hurry and save his people. After they’d found his people and brought them back to the RV he reassured them that everything would be ok. No mention of the fact he’d gotten knocked out, tied up, and locked away in a strange place. If their group had been anything like the Saviors Paul would have been dead or worse.

It’s not like they take him for granted or don’t care about him; Daryl has gotten enough shovel talks from misguided community members to know better. It’s just that Paul wears his “Jesus” persona like armor; lets people come to him with their problems and he keeps his own mostly to himself.

“Yeah. I know he does,” Daryl replies to Maggie. He looks down and scrapes his shoe against the ground, “I’ll talk to him again.”

“He’ll appreciate that,” Maggie answers.

“Are we good? You and me?” Daryl asks.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Maggie says, then, “You have been helping Glenn. I know you have. Soon as you were able to. I’m glad you’re here.”

***************

That night Daryl lays awake in bed until he hears the familiar creak of the front steps and the door opening. He listens to Paul move around the trailer and the last vestiges of his anger vanish like smoke.

Still it takes him a while before he’s able to get out of the bed. When he goes to the living room he sees Paul is on his exercise mat doing sit-ups. He doesn’t notice Daryl at first thankfully, as Daryl stares like an idiot for a few seconds. Paul’s shirtless and Daryl can see his abdominal muscles ripple as he moves. Daryl jerks his eyes away.

The other man finishes his set and notices Daryl at last. He pushes himself up on his elbows and stares at Daryl. He’s worked up a sweat despite of how cold it is, when Daryl glances back he sees beads of perspiration sliding down the hollow of his throat to his chest.

Daryl clears his throat, “Put some dang clothes on so we can play cards. Or you can beat me at chess if you want.” He walks past Paul to the kitchen and settles down in what he’s started to think of as “his” chair, as it’s the one he sits in even when Paul isn’t there.

Paul is still on the floor staring at him. Daryl can’t read his expression. Finally he gets up and retrieves his shirt from where he tossed it on the couch. His back is to Daryl as he slips it on. He’s got a patch of scars on his right shoulder, they look old. Daryl is pretty sure they came from the accident but he’s not about to ask.

Paul sits across from him. His hair is damp with sweat and curls a little at the ends. Daryl shifts in his chair, “We gonna play or not?”

Paul smiles a little; one of his sweet, genuine ones, “Sure. Gin?”

“Dealer’s choice.” Paul nods and starts shuffling the cards. Daryl’s not sure if this counts as talking to him like he told Maggie he would, but it seems to be enough.

***********

Daryl wakes up one morning with his breath visible in the air. Winter has come and it’s not fucking around; each day this week has been colder than the last. They don’t have a way of heating up their trailer; some of the others have little space heaters that run on kerosene or propane but after the incident neither Daryl nor Paul wants to risk it. Also any propane Paul scavenges goes to his water heater; Daryl thinks he’d lose all his fingers to frostbite before giving his hot showers up.

Or maybe not, Daryl thinks. He wasn’t woken up by running water this morning and he doubts Paul is still asleep. Daryl leaves the warmth of his blankets reluctantly and gets dressed as fast as he can, shivering the entire time. Paul’s not in his room and he’s not eating breakfast at the table. There’s no note, so Daryl knows that he couldn’t have gone far or planned on being gone for long.

He’s right, he finds Paul outside, bundled up in all his layers, staring up at the sky. It’s a dull, slate great that Daryl tends to associate with thunderstorms.

“We’re going to have a blizzard, I think,” Paul says, eyes glued to the sky.

“How can you tell?” Daryl asks.

“Just a feeling. We had one last year,” he lowers his gaze to Daryl, “We’re going to have to stay in Barrington house for a while.”

Daryl makes a displeased noise at that, “We’ve got sleeping bags and blankets. We’ll be fine.”

“Much as I’d love to snuggle with you for days on end—“

“That’s not what I meant and you know—“

“—at the moment the thermometer says it’s only twenty-eight degrees and it got at least ten degrees colder the last time. Even if that weren’t a problem the roof of the trailer is. You may not have noticed Daryl but our humble home is not the most well made or stable structure. Enough snow and the roof will cave in, happened to another trailer last year.”

Daryl grumbles; that’s something that he can’t ignore, “What about the other trailer folk?”

“If it does start storming then they’ll probably camp out in the house as well.”

“Wonderful,” Daryl says. The house had too many people for his taste under ordinary circumstances, now it will have even more. It makes his skin crawl.

“Don’t worry; last time I only had to stay in there for a few weeks. You’ll be able to have me to yourself again in no time.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, although he can’t help but think there’s a little truth in Paul’s fuckery. He likes it when it’s just the two of them; and since the weather started turning cold there have been times when Daryl has felt Hilltop was empty save for Paul and himself. It’s a surprisingly nice feeling.

***************

Barrington house is overrun with people. Even if the other trailer folk don’t need to worry about roofs collapsing the big house is easier to heat. It’s got wood burning stoves and multiple fireplaces and that large of a number of bodies is a heat source of its own.

To Daryl’s relief Maggie insists they stay with her and Glenn in their room. They’ve invited Tara as well and some other Hilltop folk. The latter group turn her down and seem a little scandalized.

“Gregory only let the peasants stay in his room last year if they were pretty girls,” Paul explains.

Maggie looks annoyed, “Do they think the five of us are having a big orgy in here or something?”

“In my dreams. You and Tara aren’t normally there, but I can work with it,” Paul says, leering.

“You can have Daryl, but you go for Glenn you’re getting your eyes scratched out,” Maggie says cheerfully.

“He can _not_ have Daryl,” Daryl mutters, cheeks turning red.

“Seriously, in your case I think it’s more of a respect thing. They don’t want to intrude, they feel unworthy,” Paul says.

Now it’s Maggie’s turn to go red, “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re adored, Maggie. You’re going to have to accept it eventually. You and your husband both.”

“Shut up,” she says.

******************

Paul and Daryl have come to Barrington house not a minute too soon. The storm hits at midday and is unlike anything Daryl has ever experienced. He’d lived through a few snows and an occasional storm in Georgia but they were brief squalls with snow that melted quickly. This goes on hour after hour without any sign of stopping. Winds howl through the Hilltop and bring more snow than Daryl has ever seen. When he looks out the windows the trailers and gates have vanished in the white out. It’s disturbing; Daryl gets the insane notion that the wind has just picked the whole house up and blown it into another world— Oz by way of Antarctica.

Throughout the day the five of them occupy themselves by reading, napping, and in Glenn’s case knitting. He’s graduated from ugly scarves to not-so-ugly hats. Daryl finds himself staring at Glenn’s hands a few times; hats apparently require five needles instead of two and Daryl can’t believe he’s able to keep track of them all by touch alone. But he can, what is rapidly appearing from those needles is unmistakably a hat.

His only stumbling block is an outside force. All but one of the six kittens Paul and Tara found are still alive and thriving. The little tuxedo apparently has decided that he owns Glenn and Maggie’s room and everything in it, especially Glenn’s yarn. Maggie frequently has to rescue him from Glenn’s wrath when he leaps out and attacks it.

“If we put him outside he’ll just yowl, you know he will. You’re his favorite,” Maggie says, light and teasing.

“What is it with cats loving people that hate them,” Glenn mutters.

“They like a challenge,” Tara says knowingly.

“You love him, really,” Maggie tells her husband.

“I do not. He thinks my face is his bed,” Glenn says, “You’re brainwashed; I’m immune because I can’t see how fluffy and adorable he supposedly is.”

As the day goes on and they start getting bored Maggie suggests they play a game. Paul has of course brought his playing cards with him; and with Maggie and Tara as extra players they decide to play Spades. It’s girls versus boys; Paul deals first and they start playing.

“We’re switching it up next time,” Tara mutters three hands into the game, “Maggie and I don’t have that freaky mind reading thing the two of you do.”

“Or they’re cheating,” Maggie says, just as unamused.

“ _I’m_ not cheating,” Daryl says, “I can’t speak for him.” They’re not signaling each other but whenever Daryl looks at Paul he knows instantly whether he has any trumps in his hand and plays accordingly. They’re ahead by quite a bit.

“I only cheat when I’m playing against you, Daryl,” Paul says.

“I fucking knew it.”

They leave the room only to go get dinner—it’s an unappetizing stew of made from their leftovers from last night’s dinner. The cooks can’t do much with just the kitchen, the outside fire pits of course being inaccessible. People are bundled up in rows on the floor doing much of the same things they’re doing in Maggie and Glenn’s room. Reading, talking to their friends, napping curled up next to each other.

Despite a few lulls the storm is still going strong as the evening sets in. Maggie and Glenn are curled up in a chair by the fireplace, both of their eyes growing heavy. Daryl studies them out of the corner of his eye; something seems to have changed about them. In the weeks since the big blowout over Glenn’s field trips whenever Daryl has seen them they’ve been careful around each other. When Daryl asked Glenn would only say they were still “working on it”. Now they are sat in front of the fireplace, Maggie resting her head on Glenn’s shoulder and his arm around her. They’re holding hands and Daryl sees that Glenn is tracing hers from wrist to fingertips. It makes him feel warm, they may still be “working on it” but Daryl knows it’s only question of when, not if, they’ll figure something out.

Gregory’s old bed is big enough for three so when it’s time for bed Tara curls up on Maggie’s other side while Paul and Daryl make a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor close to the fire place and settle in. Despite his earlier threats of _snuggling_ Paul leaves plenty of space between the two of them. Still it’s much warmer just being under the covers with him.

Paul lays stretched out on his stomach, head cradled on his folded arms. Daryl’s on his back with his arms folded over his chest. Glenn has managed to drive the little tuxedo kitten away from his face so he has decided to claim Daryl for his very own instead. He walks up the length of Daryl’s body and curls up on his chest, purring loudly. 

Daryl and Paul talk a little, their voices low as not to disturb their sleeping friends. Bullshit mostly; Daryl telling him of some of his youthful misadventures with Merle. At a distance some are actually pretty funny. Paul even halfway believes him when he tells the story about the chupacabra.

“The dead got up and walk around,” Paul says, “Who the fuck knows anymore.”

“That’s what I say.”

“My Gran swore up and down she saw Champ when she was a little girl. Lake monster,” Paul explains. Paul grins a little, “She was crazy as fuck, though, so who knows.”

A particularly harsh blast of wind rattles the windows and Daryl jumps. “I ain’t never been in a storm like this,” Daryl says.

“I grew up in upstate New York, this is nothing,” Paul replies. “What about you? Were you always in Georgia?”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, “First time I left the state was when we came here.”

“Your whole life?” Paul says, sounding surprised, “You know I’ve never heard your answers to the questions,” Paul says.

“Questions?”

“The six you and Glenn asked everyone here, including myself.”

“I never gave ‘em,” Daryl answers.

“Well that’s hardly fair. Name?”

“You know my name.”

“Age?” Paul continues.

“Forty-four by now,” Daryl says.

“What did you do before the outbreak?”

“Whole lotta nothing,” Daryl says quickly. “Drifted around with Merle, survived on food stamps and the occasional shit job I could turn up. Drank beer, did drugs, acted like an asshole in bars. Everywhere else too.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Nothin’ to be proud of neither.”

“I remind you that you’re talking to a convicted felon who spent three years in prison,” Paul says archly.

Daryl snorts out a laugh, “Well I suppose I have that on you; I ain’t never even been arrested.” He thinks for a moment, “How’d you end up getting caught?”

“By being a fucking idiot,” Paul replies, “I kept a Chagall litho instead of fencing it. I just liked it too much. Thank fuck it was worth less than twenty grand and it was all they could pin on me, I’d still be in jail if they could have charged me with half of the ones they knew about.”

“I have no idea what a Chagall litho is,” Daryl says. Whatever it is the fact that Paul casually described something worth what Daryl made in a year the few times he was employed like it was worth no more than a bag of sand makes him feel odd.

“Chagall was an artist; a lithograph is a type of print. That was my main thing—art. Art trade was shady as fuck, I could swipe something and an art dealer would sell it even if he knew damn well it was stolen. One guy I’d fence stuff to would tell me when he sold something and to whom, I’d go steal it, and he’d sell it to someone else.”

“Christ,” Daryl says.

“So I’ve got less to be proud of than you,” Paul rolls his shoulders, “It doesn’t matter anymore, who we were. Morally speaking, I mean. Our skills still matter, but we’re not those people anymore. For good or bad.”

They talk for awhile longer. Daryl is telling Paul about a fishing trip with Merle on the Chattahooch when he hears a soft snore. He looks over and sees that Paul has fallen asleep. His lips are parted and his breathing in low and even. Daryl reaches over to put the blanket over him before falling asleep himself.

**************

Paul is still asleep, and has been for the past ten hours or so. He was asleep when Daryl woke up in the morning and stays asleep when the others start moving around. He’s completely dead to the world, doesn’t stir no matter how much noise they make. 

It’s a long time for anyone to sleep, for Paul it’s unheard of. Daryl has gotten attuned to his sleeping patterns, and Paul sleeps about three hours a night, less on bad ones, five or six max on good ones.

It makes him paranoid, he finds himself spending an inordinate about of time staring at the rise and fall of his chest to make sure he’s breathing. Daryl considers waking Paul up but it makes him feel like an asshole, wanting an insomniac to _wake up_ when there is nothing to do but listen to the wind howling.

Still, he worries as another hour rolls by and Paul is remains asleep. When the others leave to get food Daryl stays behind; claiming he’s not hungry. It’s not really a lie. After they leave he reaches over, brushes the hair off of Paul’s face, and lays his palm against Paul’s forehead. It’s cool, no trace of fever.

Daryl hates touching people and being touched in return but for reasons he can’t explain he lets his hand linger. Paul’s skin smooth beneath his fingertips, and Daryl trails them down to Paul’s cheek to the rough beard growing there. Daryl’s pulse skyrockets suddenly and he snatches his hand away. He needs to move suddenly, so he gets up and heads to the door, deciding he’s hungry after all.

***************

“Mmmmpphh,” Paul grumbles a few hours later, voice thick with sleep, “How long was I out?”

“About twelve hours,” Daryl says.

“Jesus,” Paul says, rubbing his eyes.

“I had to check your pulse a couple a times,” Daryl says. He can joke about it now. Paul’s lips quirk into a smile.

“Sorry. But when I’m out, I am _out_. I haven’t slept like that in years,” he says, and stretches with a groan.

“My company is that stimulatin’?”

“It’s a compliment, Daryl. Take it as such.”

Thing is, Daryl does. Paul doesn’t need to explain to him that he can only really sleep like that when he feels completely safe and content. His mind tries to go back to touching Paul’s face earlier but he pushes the thought away.

*******************

The storm blows itself out that afternoon. It’s still colder than a witch’s tit out, but a lot of people staying in the big house bundle up immediately to dig the community out of the snow.

It could be even colder and Daryl would still be happy to get out of that fucking house. While it had been surprisingly nice to do absolutely nothing but jaw at his friends for over a day by the end of it he’s claustrophobic and ready to start clawing at the walls. He’s not the only one, even Glenn has come out to “help” shovel, although that means getting a pile of snow and dropping it right where Daryl has just cleared the area.

“Asshole. You’re doing that on purpose, ain’t you?” Daryl finally snaps.

“I don’t know what you mean, Daryl,” Glenn says, with a fake tremor in his voice, “I’m just trying to help, I can’t help being a poor blind guy who can barely hold the right end of a shovel—”

Daryl responds to that by dropping his shovel and going over to shoulder check Glenn, which knocks the blind sumbitch on his ass in the snow.

“FUCK!” Glenn shouts, “That’s cold!” but he’s laughing, even when Daryl grabs a shovel full of snow and dumps it on his chest.

“Hey! That’s my man you’re after!” Maggie shouts from a few yards away, where she and Paul are digging their own path. Daryl gives them the finger, gets another shovel full to continue burying Glenn.

“Maggie! Save me!”

Daryl’s barely able to dodge the snowball Maggie hurls at him. He’s not so lucky with the one Paul throws, it hits him square in the chest and explodes.

“You little shit,” Daryl snarls, and bends down to pack a snowball. Paul maybe be fast and agile but Daryl has a fucking amazing aim and hits him square in the face.

After that it doesn’t take long for chaos to descend. Everyone working outside joins in, flinging snow at each other and laughing like kids.

Snowballs fill the air but Daryl has narrowed in on Paul. The little fucker is fast andhis aim is almost as good as Daryl’s. They hurl snow at each other, ducking and weaving and Daryl finds he’s laughing too, not as exuberantly as Paul is but laughing still.

He ends it by tackling Paul to the ground. The other man tries to do one of his ninja moves to break free but Daryl has at least thirty pounds on him and Paul is laughing too hard to be effective. Daryl’s able to pin him to the ground, and he grabs a handful of snow.

“No, no, _fuck_!” Paul yells when Daryl rubs it into his face, “I give! You win! Jesus fucking Christ that is fucking _cold_!”

Daryl grabs another handful, holds it above Paul’s face, and says, “I want you to promise to stop singing that miserable bullshit of yours for at least a month. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Promise!” Paul says. He’s grinning in that way he has, where the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Why don’t I believe you,” Daryl says, lowering his fist full of snow. Paul is flush with cold and exertion, lips and cheeks red. He’s lost his beanie and his hair is everywhere and there’s snow in his beard and eyelashes.

 _I could kiss him if I wanted to._ Daryl freezes at that mad thought, wondering where the fuck it came from. His mind isn’t done, he starts thinking of how Paul’s rough beard would feel against his lips instead of his fingertips. Daryl is suddenly very aware of Paul’s body beneath him, he can feel his hard breathing.

Paul is looking at him now, smile fading, “Daryl—“ he starts to say.

It’s something close to panic that makes Daryl let the handful of snow he’s still holding drop onto Paul’s face. The other man sputters and Daryl heaves himself to his feet, heart skittering erratically in his chest. He realizes his jeans and socks have been soaked through, his legs are numb with cold.

“Asshole,” Paul says affectionately, shaking snow out of his hair as gets to his feet as well. He frowns at Daryl’s face, “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” Daryl says quickly, “My leg still twinges from time to time. Especially with the cold.” The lie falls from his mouth without conscious thought and Daryl has never been more grateful.

Paul looks concerned, and says, “Why don’t you go inside? Put some dry clothes on at least, it should help.”

Daryl nods, not trusting his voice. He looks around, the pure white snow of the Hilltop has been torn up from the fight. Everyone else is winding down, as Daryl watches he sees Glenn shove a handful of snow down a screaming Maggie’s neck. He grabs her and kisses her before she can retaliate.

Daryl shivers and heads for the house, reminding himself to limp. He doesn’t turn to see but is convinced he can feel Paul’s eyes on his back, it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

 _What the fuck was that,_ he thinks.


	13. Now

Donnie and two of the Saviors keep guns trained on them while the third starts collecting their weapons. As their gear piles up Donnie whistles and says,“Christ, you folks don’t fuck around, do you?” He sounds impressed.

“Why?” Dwight asks Donnie in a dead voice, “You betrayed Negan too. You can’t think this is going to end well. Any of you,” the last is aimed at the three other Saviors.

“I’m sorry Dwight,” Donnie says, “I’ve got nothin’ against you.”

“You can’t tell me you want to go back to Negan! Things are  _ better _ now!”

Donnie snorts, “For how long? What happens when Hilltop decides it wants something that’s bad for the Sanctuary? What if the Sanctuary is attacked and those Kumbayah motherfuckers at the Kingdom don’t want to send soldiers to help? We  _ need _ a guy like Negan.”

“You ain’t fucking serious,” Daryl interrupts. There’s a gleam in Donnie’s eye; one Daryl has seen before. The gleam that people got just before they would shout  _ We are all Negan! _ The gleam of a true believer.

Donnie looks at Daryl serenely, “Serious as hell, Daryl. Let’s go.”

*************** 

Donnie escorts them right up to the front entrance of the airfield. They are challenged by one of the guards on  the top of the fuel truck that acts as a gate. Donnie identifies himself, says there’s been a change in plans and he needs to speak to Ogden  _ now.  _ A few moments later one of the guards comes out to meet them. The guard is a young blonde woman; if it weren’t for the intensity of her stare and the size of the gun in her hands she’d look like an extra from a teen movie. Mean cheerleader #3 or something similar. She freezes when she sees Dwight then lets out a snarl and springs forward, driving the butt of her gun into his solar plexus. Dwight drops, arms around his middle and struggling for air. 

“Wait!” Donnie says, pulling the guard off, “Just wait! Ogden will want to talk to him first.”

She jerks out of Donnie’s grip, face composed but eyes still wild. She doesn’t try to attack Dwight again beyond hissing, “Traitor!” and spitting on his bowed head. 

She looks up and seems to notice Daryl and Rick for the first time. Her gaze flicks over Daryl dismissively before zeroing in on Rick. She goes white to her lips, “Is that Rick Grimes?” she says in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

“It is,” Donnie says, “He’s here to attack; there are more of his group coming. We need to talk to Ogden  _ now.” _

_ “ _ Yeah,” the cheerleader from hell says slowly, “I suppose you do.”

************

They’re lead around the abandoned fuel truck through the main entrance of the airport grounds. The guard from the gate walks several yards behind them while Donnie and the three traitors from the Sanctuary walk on either side. They’re marched down the center of the road through a canyon made of a dozen hangars looming over them on either side. The hangars are rusted and their signs advertising flight lessons and skydiving tours are crooked and falling down.  _ Cruel nature has won again,  _ Daryl thinks. The head and shoulders of three lookouts walking on the roofs are visible when Daryl looks up. 

At the end the rows of hangars the road splits; in one direction is a building with two signs “Kirkman International Air Lounge” and another that “Skyline Restaurant& Bar". It’s three stories, Daryl sees movement from the top. In the other direction, north, towards the quarry and a building with a sign that reads “Collum Airfield Administration”. This building looks like the world’s ugliest lighthouse: it is a squat and square one story building attached to the Air Traffic control tower. Daryl squints up and sees two more lookouts watching over the grounds. In between both of these structures is are two more crumpled airplanes. One looks like a replica of a first War era biplane, Daryl doesn’t think it got very far off the ground before it came down. They’re marched past the wreckage and halted in the shadow of Control tower. 

“On your knees,” the blonde guard says. Dwight goes down first, head bowed. Rick and Daryl both hesitate. Rick looks him steadily in the eye and gives him the smallest of nods then joins Dwight. Daryl remains on his feet, his legs refusing his mind’s command to make them kneel. 

_ Line ‘em up. _

Daryl can hear Negan’s voice clear as fucking day. He remembers his promise to Rick that he could stay cool and wonders if he’ll be able to keep it.

_ Eeny. Meeny. Miney. Mo. _

“I said on your knees!”

“Daryl,” Rick hisses. Daryl wants to respond that he’s trying, that he  _ knows  _ this won’t help Paul, but he  _ can’t.  _ He feels a snarled mix of panic and rage and any second he’s going to start a fight.

The guard presses her gun against the back of his head, “On. Your. Knees!” 

“Now come on, Linda,” a voice drawls out, “No need to be uncivil.”

Daryl goes still. A lanky scarecrow of a man followed by at least a dozen other people has come out from the administration building unnoticed. Daryl hasn’t seen Ogden since the Sanctuary and is unprepared for the intensity of murderous rage the sight of him provokes.  

“Hi Daryl,” Ogden says affably, “Been a long time.” 

Daryl doesn’t answer, he’s afraid to do anything. He feels if he so much as shifts his feet or says a word he is going to snap and then it will be all over. He tries to breathe slowly, deep inhales through his mouth and exhales through his nose. Ogden smiles then turns his attention to Rick.

“Sorry for my associate, she’s a little overzealous. No need for you to kneel to  _ me.  _ Get up, it’s ok.”

Rick hesitates a second, staring up at Ogden before getting to his feet slowly. He leans into Daryl briefly, a grounding gesture that Daryl badly needs. It’s barely enough. 

Dwight shifts as well but before he can move an inch Ogden steps forward and kicks him in the face. 

“Not you, Dwight. You stay in the dirt,” he looks back at Rick and Daryl, “I must say I’m surprised to see you here.”

“There are more of them,” Donnie says, “Two more teams of about six each. They’re going to try and slip into the east and south entrances.”

Ogden gives a look to one of his people. The other man nods and jogs off with about half of Ogden’s crew into the direction of the planned attack.

“Not even twenty people, Rick? Seems unlike you.”

“We weren’t planning to see you. You took one of our people, we came to look for him.”

“Did we?” Ogden says, voice playful. Daryl feels Rick’s shoulder press against him again. 

“Lost three people doing it, it looked like,” Rick says.

Ogden chuckles, “Oh yeah.  _ That _ guy. Little fellow, long hippie hair, big blue eyes. Looks like he walked out of one of those paintings of the Lord that my granny hung on her walls.”

Every bit of Daryl is screaming to go after the man in front of him, tear him apart with his bare hands if necessary.  _ Breathe.  _

_ “ _ Where is he?” Rick asks, then, “Is he dead?”

Rick should know better than to ask that question in front of Daryl. If the answer is yes then Daryl will never see his cool again. If the answer is yes then everything is fucked to hell and the last thing Daryl will do is have the satisfaction of fulfilling his promise to Carl that he would bash this motherfucker’s skull in. 

Ogden doesn’t answer, just smiles and looks out over the airfield, “You people took someone of ours, too. We want him back, this is why we’re here. We were planning on just taking the Sanctuary. Donnie here would let us in, we’d gut that skinny little worm at your feet then arrange to break Negan out. That’s all we want, really. What do you say to that?” 

Rick looks him in the eye, “I say that if you tell us where Jesus is then surrender I’m willing to put you into a cell right next to Negan instead of killing you,” he glances over at the rest of Ogden’s men, “You’ll be free to go back to the Sanctuary if you accept Dwight as a leader.”

Ogden gapes at Rick then lets out a deep belly laugh, “Oh it’s a damn  _ tragedy _ you and Negan couldn’t come to an understanding. Two of you together would be something to see.”

“That’s what I’m offering you,” Rick says, “Take it or leave it.”

“I have a counter-offer. I kill you, all your people about to come charging in— ‘cept for Michonne, I must admit I didn’t get to know her as much as I would have liked; you’re a helluva lucky man—then go to Alexandria, blow your scary bastard kid’s other eye out, take Negan, and burn the entire place to the ground.”

Rick’s eyes are no longer calm. He’s not afraid, not in the least, but Daryl suspects that he is as close to losing his cool as Daryl himself is, “Negan is never getting out,” Rick says, “I told my ‘scary bastard kid’ that if he doesn’t hear from me by today or if he gets even the slightest suspicion that something’s wrong to execute Negan on the spot.”

Despite everything this admission startles Daryl. He remembers Rick pulling Carl to the side before they left and having a talk with him. Fuck, surely Rick hadn’t told the kid to do that, had he? Daryl looks at his friend’s face and honestly can’t tell if he’s bluffing. 

Ogden doesn’t seem to have any doubts, “Well  _ that  _ is disappointing as all hell, Rick,” he says mildly. He looks contemplative, “Sure you don’t want to trade? Negan’s reasonable. Knows when he’s been beat. Hell, he  _ respects  _ you. He’ll leave you be. This slut here—“ he kicks Dwight, “Is going to get up close and personal with Lucille, can’t change that. But there’s no need for this to get bloodier. You go back, we do an exchange. I let your people go. Hell, I’ll even give you that slippery little fuck that calls himself Jesus. Do you know he managed to get loose and kill  _ another  _ one of my people the second day he was here? We had to hunt him down all night and drag him back, a lot of people here aren’t too happy with him. But I won’t lie, I kinda like him. He’s got  _ spunk. _ ”

Daryl jerks forward a step involuntarily and growls, “Where is he?”  _He’s alive,_ Daryl thinks, _he’s alive._ Rick gives him a warning look he ignores; he didn’t lunge for Ogden’s throat when he mentioned Paul so he is perfectly fucking _cool_ goddamnit. 

Before Ogden can answer all hell breaks loose.

There is the loud boom of an explosion that echoes out from the front entrance. A cloud of smoke billows up. 

Donnie lets out a shout and whirls to Rick, “What the fuck did your people do?”

Ogden looks unruffled. “Keep an eye on them,” he says to the four men that remain to him, “They’ve pulled this trick before, at the Sanctuary. There’s no way they have enough walkers gathered by now.” Daryl looks down the hangar canyon and sees that iron fencing surrounding the fuel tanker has been blasted apart. Through the smoke the dead are coming in.

There’s a crack and one of the walkers goes down. The lookouts in the ATC tower and roofs of the hangars are firing on the herd. One after another go down. 

“Don’t waste your fucking bullets!” Ogden hollers up at them. He goes unheard over the din.

Finally there is a pause in fire. 

The ground is littered with fallen walkers. Linda and another one of the rogue Saviors approach the pile cautiously, guns raised. Ogden turns back to Rick with a smile, “That was an unfortunate interruption, Rick. Negotiations are hard when the other party isn’t being honest.“

“Ogden!” Linda calls out. She’s standing over a walker, poking it cautiously with the front of his rifle. Daryl looks at Rick and both men tense, getting ready. Linda continues, “There’s something not right-“

Before she can finish the walker explodes. 

The noise is deafening, gore and bits of metal go flying. Linda’s legs are vaporized from the knees down and she goes over, screaming in agony. The other guard has been knocked to his knees, blood leaking from his ears. Daryl is only to keep his feet because he has been expecting this since the first sighting of the walkers. He’s still off balance, his ears ringing.

“What the fuck—“ Donnie starts to say when a second walker explodes.

Daryl doesn’t wait to see the rest, he’s on his feet and lunging at the nearest man guarding him.

*********************

_ “What’s the plan?” Rosita asks. _

_ Rick doesn’t say anything for a few beats. He glances over to where Michonne is pacing and keeping an eye out. Rick turns back to the group and in a low voice says, “We’ll get to that. We’ve gotta talk about something else first.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “I think Donnie is helping them,” Rick says, and explains who that is to the rest of the group. _

_ “Why do you think that?” Maggie asks. _

_ Rick searches for words for a few seconds, “It’s a feeling more than anything else. But the supply runner we brought in, this kid named Jamie,” he pauses, “When he told us about what he saw he looked at Donnie, like he was checking to make sure he was saying the right thing. I talked to Dwight, Donnie was never in deep with Negan and he accepted the new world order pretty quick, but…” _

_ “But the kid looked at him?” Dante sounds skeptical. The others don’t say anything but their expressions are equally skeptical, save for Sasha, Rosita, and Maggie. The family. _

_ “I know it’s not much. And I may be wrong, that’s why I’m not accusing him in front of everyone dragging him off for questioning.” _

_ “It’s still not much—“ Dante argues. _

_ “This whole trip started because of gut feelings,” Maggie interrupts, “So far they’ve been right. Jesus  _ was _ taken by people where we thought he’d be. Someone at the Sanctuary did see  _ something _ ,” she looks at Rick, “I trust you, Rick Grimes. What do we do?” _

_ “We use it. Take it as a given that he’s going to betray us before or during the attack. Not only him, but anyone who volunteers to come with us. Sneaking in isn’t option, they’ll know we’re coming. So I suggest we use the shock and awe tactic instead. Carol got us out of a situation like this doing the same thing.” _

_ “Shock and awe?” Rosita says, “That reminds me of one of Abe’s stories.” She looks almost surprised at her own words, and then a little sad. _

_ Sasha looks over at her, “Was it the story about the exploding camel?” _

_ Rosita smiles a little, “That was the one. It was bullshit, he told me that later. But suicide bombers weren’t. He said the worst thing about them was you started suspecting everybody. Even the camels.” _

_ “How do suicide bombers help us?” Heath asks. _

_ “It ain’t suicide if they’re already dead,” Daryl says, grasping immediately what Rosita is thinking about.  _

_ “How’s this going to work?” Rick says, looking at Rosita, “We don’t have a lot of time.” _

_ “You said we need to plan on Donnie betraying us,” Daryl says, “We can buy time, and a distraction.” H’s thinking of Paul, how he deliberately got caught just because it was the fastest way in. He tells Rick his idea. _

_ “How do you know they’ll capture you instead of just shooting you?” Maggie asks. _

_ “I don’t,” Daryl says honestly. He doesn’t say that it’s worth the risk, if there is a slightest chance he will be taken prisoner and held in the same area as Paul he’ll take it. Daryl needs to see him with his own eyes, needs to  _ know _ he’s still alive. _

_ “They want Negan,” Rick says, interrupting his thoughts, “Ogden does at least. He’s a true believer. I don’t think he’ll kill anybody he thinks can arrange that for him. It’s not just going to be you.” _

***********

Daryl, Rick and Dwight have managed to take down  an opponent each and arm themselves. Rick takes his guard’s assault rifle and he opens fire. Daryl has the distinct pleasure of watching that fuckhead Donnie go down in a spray of blood. 

Bullets hit the dirt at their feet, the lookouts have opened fire on them. Daryl swings his gun towards them and opens fire and they drop down out of his view. 

There intervention has given Ogden and his surviving people a chance to dive for cover behind the wreckage of the fallen aircraft.

Daryl, Rick, and Dwight bolt for the Administration building and the attached control tower, getting out of the line of sniper fire. Their luck holds, none of the lookouts in the tower are anywhere close to Sasha in terms of ability. 

The three men spill into the lobby of the administration building. The windows, once made of glass, have been boarded over. Rick rips one of the middle boards out and opens fire on Ogden’s group to prevent them from following. “We need to get into that tower!” Rick says to Daryl, “There has to be an entrance around here!”

Daryl gives a curt nod then sweeps through the lobby. There is an ornate reception desk and behind it a closed door with an “Authorized Personnel Only” label. Daryl races past the desk and charges through the door. It takes him down a long hallway, when he gets to the end and turns the corner he runs right into the barrel of a gun. The world entire world around him comes to a crashing halt and he’s unaware of the sounds of gunfire.  _ This is it. _

“Daryl?” a familiar voice says. He blinks, not believing his ears. The world snaps into focus and he sees it’s Michonne; dirty and bloodied but perfectly fine otherwise. Behind her are Rosita and Sasha. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Daryl exclaims.  Their group was supposed to be hanging back with Maggie’s, waiting to rush in and attack after the first wave of shock and awe. 

“Quarry wasn’t the obstacle we thought it would be. We climbed it and came in through the back. Siddiq and Heath are with Maggie’s group.” she says.

“They could have seen you—“

“Had a feeling they wouldn’t be looking,” she replies. As if on cue they are rocked by the sound of another explosion. Rosita’s eyes flash with satisfaction. 

“How many of those goddamned things did you rig up?” Daryl shouts.

“Six. And we put dummy bombs on a few others. Make these assholes hesitate to fire on them,” Rosita says, giving a grin that has a bit too many teeth.

“Where’s Rick?” Michonne asks.

“That way,” Daryl points behind him,  “He’s trying to hold Ogden’s group off. We need to get up into the control tower, Maggie and her team will be coming any minute and there’s still lookouts stationed on the hangar roofs.”

“We’re on it,” Sasha says. Her own rifle is slung over one shoulder. “Rosita!” The two women take off.

Daryl races back down the hallway, Michonne at his heels. Daryl flings the door open, Michonne bolts out towards Rick. 

Daryl almost misses the man crouched beneath the reception desk. But there is just a flicker of movement as Michonne goes past and Daryl sees him, a youngish guy with thick plastic glasses and shaggy hair. He’s crouched underneath the reception desk, white as a sheet and clutching a gun. Daryl must have raced past him earlier, completely oblivious. When he realizes Daryl has spotted him he leaps out, swinging the gun up. 

Daryl is on him before he can aim. He is able to get off a shot but Daryl has a hold of his wrist and the bullet goes harmlessly up to the ceiling. Daryl jerks him forward and head butts him, he hears the glasses snap and a howl of pain. Daryl twist’s the other man’s wrist and the gun tumbles from his hand. 

Daryl is dimly aware that Michonne has realized what was happening and is coming back to Daryl’s side. ground. He puts up a fight, trying to reach out for his dropped gun. Michonne stops her boot down on his wrist and Daryl  snatches the gun up. He shoves the gun under its former owner’s chin and snarls, “You took one of our people a few days ago.  _ Where is he?” _

_ “ _ Fuck you!“

Daryl jams his left thumb into the man’s right eye all the way to the second knuckle almost as soon as the words are out. Beneath him his opponent bucks and screams shrilly. Daryl jerks his thumb out, bits of the eyeball come with it. He holds it above the other man’s remaining eye, “I ain’t gonna fucking ask you again.”

“In the executive lounge! In the terminal!”

_ Fuck. “ _ Who all’s in there? How many people?”

“I don’t know! At least two! We were told not to let him escape again—“

Daryl doesn’t waste a bullet, just reverses the grip on the gun and smashes it down on his face again and again until he stops twitching. 

Daryl looks up at Michonne, who is staring at him ashen-faced. 

Daryl remembers Ogden saying Paul had killed one of his people when he’d made his escape attempt.  _ Don’t let him escape again,  _ Daryl can practically hear the man saying it. Rick wasn’t the only one who would tell someone to kill a prisoner rather than risk his escape. 

He’s on his feet and racing to the door, heart in his throat before he’s consciously aware of what he’s doing. Michonne is at his side. When they reach Rick he sees her for the first time and says her name wondrously. Daryl hears him ask what she’s doing there but it’s far away. He’s too busy looking out down the road at  the terminal. Between it and them are scattered rogue Saviors, reinforcements are coming from where Ogden had sent them earlier. Daryl sees more of the dead have gotten in. It’s a mess of confusion.

Daryl swallows and looks over at Rick and Michonne, “Cover me,” he says, then plunges out into the chaos without waiting for a response. He hears the roar of gunfire behind him as his friends lay down covering fire. 

Everything but the terminal fades away as he runs through the smoke and rain of bullets. They only slow him a little, he has never been less afraid for his own life. If gets there too late and Paul is dead it doesn’t matter if Daryl is dead or not as well. Adrenaline is coursing through his body and he feels like a bullet wouldn’t stop him even if he is hit. He sees one of the rogue Saviors leaning out from behind his shelter of plane wreckage, then sees his head explode in a fountain of blood. Sasha and Rosita have taken the control tower and are methodically taking out any enemies that leave their cover. 

It takes him less than a minute to cross that stretch of road and he feels every fucking second of it. 

He runs into the terminal entrance, gun raised. No one comes to challenge him; they may have all been drawn to the fighting outside or they may be laying in wait. 

Gun at the ready he slips through the terminal, every cell in his body on alert.

The terminal isn’t much; there is an information  desk and an arrivals gate. On the desk there is a directory that Daryl scans rapidly.  _ Pilot’s lounge, aviation conference room 1, room 2, Skyline Restaurant & Bar, executive lounge… _

Daryl forces himself to double-check the room number races off in search of the lounge.

He finds it on the upper floor. The door to executive lounge is open and Daryl charges in heedless of his own safety. The first thing he sees is a dead body on the floor. 

His knees buckle and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet.  _ It’s not him! Don’t lose your fucking cool now!  _ Daryl isn’t sure if that voice is his own or the Ghost of Merle. It's right whichever it is.   The body is of a beefy older guy with tan skin and a white mustache. Or it once was white, now it’s stained red. The body has a chunk of wood protruding from a gory wound in its throat. Blood is sprayed everywhere, his death had been hard. Daryl looks around and really takes in the room for the first time. Once upon a time it must have been pretty fancy, there’s the remains of several plush leather chairs and of a small wet bar on one side of the room. It’s all been trashed, most of it looks like it had happened long ago. There is splintered wood and bits of rope and duct tape scattered over the floor that looks fresh, however. Daryl spies what was once a chair leg, there’s a metal handcuff still attached to it.

When comprehension dawns Daryl almost loses his fucking mind. Of course. Of fucking  _ course  _ that little prick couldn’t just  _ stay in one place _ so that Daryl can find him. He just  _ had  _ to fuck off to god knew where in the middle of a goddamned war zone. Tying him up, cuffing him to a chair, and putting him under guard still wouldn’t be enough to stop him. It’s all Daryl can do not to rip his hair out in frustration and he can’t stop himself from spitting out “ _ Paul I am going to  _ stomp _ your ass when I find you.”  _ His voice sounds on the verge of hysteria in his own ears.

He forces himself to be calm and look around. Now that he isn’t in full fight mode and can take in things he sees the bloody footprints leading out of the room. Daryl must have raced right past them without seeing them, all his focus on the open door. He follows them out to the hallway, they lead him to a stairwell. A sign by the door informs him he can take these stairs up to the third floor and the Skyline Restaurant & Bar. 

Daryl freezes; the stairwell door is riddled with bullet holes. He opens it cautiously, heart thudding. Inside is pitch black, a little light from the open door illuminates the steps going up. 

Gun in hand he starts up the stairs in pitch blackness, going as slowly and carefully as he can, ears straining. Glenn is even fucking braver than Daryl thought if this is his reality every day. At last the stairs level out, he’s reached the top of the flight. Taking a deep breath he throws open the door. Staying in the doorway he swings his gun from side to side, but he isn’t confronted. 

There’s another body on the floor; this one’s face has been split open and all that’s left is a bloody mess. He still knows it’s not Paul, this guy was six foot if he was an inch. 

Daryl takes a step inside the room and as soon as he does he hears the creak of door hinges. He spins around just in time to see the door flying at him and he realizes just before it hits that there is someone hiding on the other side and had  just been waiting for him to come through.

The door hits him hard and he stumbles. He isn’t able to keep a hold of his gun, it goes flying into the room.

His assailant lunges out from his hiding place and Daryl catches the blur of metal as something is swung at his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tough chapter to write, action scenes are *hard* yo. I hope this is coherent enough.


	14. Then

As he lies awake Daryl tries to explain that… _thing_ he thought in the snow. It’s difficult to do with Paul stretched out on his stomach beside him. He’s just as out as he was the previous evening which Daryl is grateful for.

He tells himself that it’s just brought on by being forced to sleep next to each other. Despite the careful distance between them Daryl is still very _aware_ of Paul’s body. He can feel the heat from it for one thing; something that makes him sweat uncomfortably instead of being pleasantly warm as it was before. He’s conscious of the fact that he could just roll over and scoot a few inches closer and press up against him.

To his mortification that thought stirs his dick to life. It’s the final straw, he slips out of their nest of pillows quietly and grabs a blanket. Daryl sits in the chair by the fire with his heart pounding and knees pressed together until it goes away.

_What the fuck._

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He’s never thought about having sex with a man, never dreamed or fantasized. He doesn’t think about sex much period. He was never any good at it and he didn’t like it. Hated taking his clothes off and having to deal with another person’s hands on him. When the urge hits him—which isn’t that often— he prefers to jerk off and he doesn’t think about fucking guys while he does it. Doesn’t appear in these fantasies himself at all; someone putting their hands on him has no more appeal in imagination than in reality. Besides it makes him feel embarrassed as all hell; even before Merle Dixon’s ghost took up permanent residence in the dark recesses of his mind Daryl could still picture his commentary perfectly. So Daryl just thinks up a generic man and woman fucking then jerks off in a perfunctory, businesslike manner.

Maybe it was all of Paul’s fuckery finally getting to his head. Paul joked about having sex with him all the time, it made sense that eventually Daryl would start being curious. Have _thoughts_. Next time Paul makes one of his comments Daryl will tell him bluntly to stop. He’s tolerated it because he knew it was harmless and Paul just likes to mess with him. No more.

So resolved, he leans back into the chair and tries to get some sleep beside the dying fire.

***************

Thing is Paul doesn’t give him an opportunity during the following week. He’s behaving himself remarkably well, seems to have decided that since Barrington is their temporary home the house rule of “no fuckery” applies. In fact it’s actually been a while since he’s made any more overt overtures towards Daryl. Ever since their fight over Glenn’s field trips the only two instances Daryl can think of were the offhand comment about “snuggling” and his joking about the five of them having an orgy. The second instance had been aimed more at Maggie than Daryl himself. This realization brings with it a new level of confusion; Daryl doesn’t know why he started being affected when Paul has been behaving himself for so long.

Daryl does his best to not think about it. He deals with it by losing himself in heavy physical labor, of which there is plenty. It snows again, not a blizzard but several inches of snow are still dumped on them regardless. It needs to be shoveled, roofs of the trailers need swept off, and the bolder members of the community need to venture out to the woods to cut firewood. The last is Daryl’s preferred duty. It’s time consuming and physically exhausting and in the evenings Daryl is able to collapse by the fire and fall asleep before he can start having… _thoughts_ about the man asleep next to him. The man in question rarely goes on these excursions, which is another bonus.

****************

Rarely doesn’t mean never, however. Today Paul gets bundled up and joins the group as they head out into the woods. Paul is surprisingly strong and an excellent fighter but relies on speed and agility more than anything else. He’s not the haul heavy chunks of wood around type.

Daryl tells him this, regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Lord knows the innuendoes Paul can make out of _hauling wood._ Although it would be a good time to tell him to cut that shit out once and for all.

But Paul doesn’t take the bait, even though his eyes sparkle a bit with amusement, “I think I can manage. Besides which I’m going a little stir crazy in there. Y’know?”

“Mmmhmm,” Daryl grumbles. He wishes Paul had chose another form of of exercise. The grunts he makes when he hits the tree with an ax is distracting as fuck. Daryl wants to tell him to fucking stop it but Paul’s not the only one who makes noises so Daryl can’t without drawing attention to himself. Daryl just throws himself into the work instead.

When he pauses after knocking down one a tree Paul is behind him. Daryl starts, he hadn’t heard him coming. “You’re cruising for an ax to the face,” Daryl grumbles.

Paul raises an eyebrow, “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.”

“Oh,” Daryl says, embarrassed.

“We’re taking a break, do you want something?” Daryl looks around, the rest of the group is breaking out thermoses of the hot broth that is the standard ration for outdoor work. “Come on, sit for a minute.”

“Nah. I’m alright,” Daryl says, heading for the tree line to find another likely candidate for firewood.

“Have I done something to piss you off?” Paul asks bluntly before Daryl has taken more than a few steps.

“‘Sides the usual?” Daryl says, trying to deflect. He glances at the rest of the group, no one is paying them any particular bit attention.

“I’m calling Honesty Hour, Daryl. No sarcasm allowed.”

Daryl starts to sweat. He’s already discovered he’s fucking terrible at lying to Paul, “No.”

Paul raises his eyebrows, “So what’s going on with you? Been sneaking off on a few field trips you think I won’t approve of? I thought you agreed to just tell me to fuck off.”

Daryl shakes his head. Paul continues to stare at him with raised eyebrows and all of Daryl’s skin feels hot, “No. I’m just sick of being stuck in the house. Don’t take it personal.”

Paul frowns at him and Daryl tries not to fidget, “You’ve been getting outside to work, though.”

“Still can’t be alone anywhere,” Daryl answers. It’s not even a lie.

Paul studies him for a bit longer and thankfully seems to accept that answer. “Alright,” he says, “So far this winter’s been a lot milder than the last one. We should be home soon.”

“This is _mild?_ ” Daryl says, dismayed.

Paul grins, “We had three big storms by this time last year, all of which were worse than our most recent one.”

“Shit,” Daryl mutters, “Should never have left Georgia.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Paul replies. He says it with such unselfconscious sincerity that Daryl can’t help the warmth that swells in his chest. _So am I,_ he thinks. Whatever weird and confusing _thoughts_ he’s been getting due to cabin fever he’s glad Paul’s in his life. Glad this whole place is in his life, much as he bitches about all the people swarming over it.

“Believe I will take a breather after all,” Daryl says.

“Wise decision,” Paul says, “Come on.”

As they walk back toward the group Daryl knocks their shoulders together affectionately. He resolves to not be an asshole to Paul, the other man is his friend first and foremost and doesn’t deserve getting brushed off just because Daryl is going stir crazy.

 

*************

Daryl is in the kitchens because Paul said hours ago that he was going to grab a bite to eat and he hasn’t been back yet. Daryl is starting to wonder if he had gotten lost.

The kitchen is empty except for a single cook scrubbing down the dishes. Daryl recognizes him; Wes, thirty-one, former chef, ten walker kills and only one person —his wife after she’d been bitten.

“Hey Daryl,” Wes says when he seems him, smiling a little. He’s a striking guy with curly black hair and blue eyes. “What brings you here? You didn’t skip dinner, did you? I could have sworn I saw you.”

“Nah,” Daryl says, “Was just looking for Paul.” He feels awkward; Wes is one of the cooks Daryl could reliably scrounge an early meal from in exchange for a grilling about his nonexistent relationship with Paul.

Wes gives him an assessing look, “He was, but that was a while ago. I think he’s in the library now.”

“Oh,” Daryl says. Every evening since the blizzard groups of people have gathered in the library to tell stories, perform music, or play games. 

“I can still fix you up something real quick if you’d like,” Wes says, a wheedling tone in his voice.

“Nah. Thanks anyways,” he is in no mood to deal with someone asking him leading questions about Paul.

On his way to the library he hears the familiar sound of Paul’s singing voice and freezes for a second. Tonight Paul must be taking a turn performing.

The doors are open and Daryl hangs in the shadows just outside. When he peers inside he sees the room is lit by candles, groups of people are sat around in knots listening or talking among themselves. Paul is in the center of the room strumming a guitar and singing. It occurs to Daryl that while he’s _heard_ Paul sing before he’s never actually _watched_ him do it. Paul keeps his eyes closed and lets every emotion flicker across his face. Daryl watches him, throat going dry.

 _Home is where I want to be_ _But I guess I’m already there_ _I came home, he lifted up his wings_

_I guess that this must be the place_

 

_I can’t tell one from the other_

_Did I find you or you find me?_

_There was a time, before we were born_

_If someone asks, this is where I’ll be, where I’ll be_

 

_We drift in and out_

_Sing into my mouth_

_Out of all those kinds of people_

_You’ve got a face with a view_

_I’m just an animal, looking for a home_

_Share the same space for a minute or two_

_And you love me till my heart stops_

_Love me till I’m dead—“_

 

Daryl tears his eyes away and sees Alex is in the crowd of people. He’s watching Paul with a wistful expression on his face. When Paul finishes Alex grins and claps with enthusiasm. Daryl hears Paul tell him to fuck off, laughter in his voice. A girl steps out of the crowd and Paul hands her the guitar before he goes to sit next to Alex.

Daryl steps away before Paul can see him and heads back up the stairs to Maggie and Glenn’s room. His hands are shaking a little and he wants to hit something.

*************

During their last weeks at Barrington house a nasty cold runs through the entire population. Every other person is stuffy and miserable. Doctor Carson and Alex say there just isn’t much to be done except let it run its course. He doesn’t understand why Maggie, Daryl, and Glenn are so upset, particularly the former two. When Glenn catches it and develops a loud, hacking cough Paul has to take Maggie aside and talk her down.

They appoint watchmen to stand shifts in case anyone dies during the night and reanimates. Paul thinks this is a little excessive. “It’s just a cold,” Paul tells Daryl later, blowing snot into an old rag, “This happened last year.”

“Did Maggie tell you what happened at the prison?” Daryl asks. He hasn’t gotten sick himself yet, he’s just waiting. He’s not _quite_ as keyed up as Maggie and Glenn are but he gets it. Watching first Glenn, then Tara and Maggie, and now Paul get taken out one after another frightens him badly. He hadn’t been at the prison during the worst of the plague but he saw the aftermath and dragged the bodies of dead out to be burnt or buried outside the prison fence.

“She did,” Paul says, “Alex and Doc Carson don’t take the idea of a plague lightly. They know what can happen, if they say it will be fine I believe them.”

Daryl doesn’t share his faith. While his friends don’t sleep well due to coughing fits and congested chests Daryl doesn’t sleep at all. He makes sure they have plenty of water, hot broth, and blankets. He doesn’t make the best nurse, he wishes there was something else he could do to help. Go out into the wilderness, fight some walkers, bring back something to make them all better.

Glenn is particularly miserable. Daryl hadn’t realized just how much he’s been relying on his sense of smell and its loss has made him withdrawn and irritable. He’s not so bad that Daryl has to start wondering if he’s fading away again but he’s still worse than he’s been in ages. Daryl is too busy with everyone else to help him as much as he wants.

Daryl is so relieved when the others start getting better that he can’t be bothered to give a fuck when he starts coughing himself. Once the cold gets ahold of him it lingers longer than it had for most everyone else, as though it is punishing Daryl for evading it for so long. He’s still coughing crud up from his lungs when the thaw comes and he and Paul are able to move back into their trailer.

The one positive about this is that for weeks Daryl is first too exhausted then too sick and miserable to focus on his weird _thoughts_ about Paul. By the time they move back into their trailer Daryl has successfully pushed it out of his mind.

For the most part.

**************

Things aren’t quite back to normal inside his head. His routine with Paul goes back to what it was before their stay in Barrington; the other man wakes Daryl with his shower concerts, they eat breakfast, then go about their chores for the day. The two men tend to work on different tasks and Paul prefers communal meals at the house so the next time Daryl usually sees him is when they have their midnight card games.

Routine. _Domestic._ Nothing’s changed from before. It’s just that occasionally Paul will do something like chew on his lip and Daryl won't be able to stop staring, or Paul will tuck his hair behind his ear and Daryl will wonder what it would be like to run his fingers through it.

He smacks those thoughts down as soon as they come. He tells himself that it’s just Paul’s fuckery going to his head and even if it weren’t Paul had been _joking._ And he doesn’t even do that anymore really.

Maybe he’s back with Alex, Daryl thinks one day. The two seem to be hanging out more. Daryl pushes that thought away just as savagely as the others. Thinking about that makes him fucking furious; not just anger but the kind of black rage that only goes away after a trip outside and killing a few walkers.

************

The temperatures warm up just enough that they’re inundated with rain instead of snow, the entire place is a giant mess of mud. Rain or no rain there is plenty of work to do

Paul goes on his first run when the weather clears for the day. It’s a short one, just an overnight at the Kingdom then back the following morning (weather permitting).

The night before he leaves Daryl sits at the card table and writes a letter for Carol. He has a hard Time with it, half of what he wants to say he can’t make himself write because he is pointedly _not_ thinking about any of it.

***************

Paul is gone three days because it will not stop fucking raining. The first half of the fourth day is clear and sunny. Daryl is hopeful that Paul will be back that day until about noon, when dark clouds start drifting in from the east. By mid afternoon it’s pouring again.

That evening Daryl is in the kitchen shaping a new set of crossbow bolts out of wood when he hears the familiar creak of the steps outside and Paul stumbles in a few minutes later.

“Didn’t expect you back today,” Daryl says.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Paul says, shaking out his wet hair and tossing his coat onto the floor, “By the time it started coming down it was a shorter trip here than back to the Kingdom. I don’t think Glue Boy will ever forgive me.”

“That dumb horse will probably forget it happened before the morning.”

“Hey! Only I get to call him dumb,” Paul says, mock-offended. “Is there food?” He asks as he settles down at the table in his chair across from Daryl.

Daryl has a bit of his dinner left over. It’s not much but Paul says it will do, “Carol wrote you a letter. It’s in my coat.”

“How is she?” Daryl asks. He fucking _misses_ her.

“She wants you to come for a visit,” Paul says, “Maybe my next run.”

“Maybe,” Daryl says, “But how _is_ she?”

Paul doesn’t need for Daryl to provide a longer explanation, “She’s happy. Really happy. Teaching kids to grow gardens and how to stab walkers,” the side of Paul’s mouth quirks, “‘And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it.’”

“I can tell when your quoting something.”

“It’s from the _Lord of the Rings._ The character it refers to reminds me a little of Carol.”

“You are such a fucking nerd.”

Paul chuckles, “You keep telling me that like it’s something I don’t already know.” He goes quiet, then says, “Aaron was there. He said that you are also overdue for a visit to Alexandria. Was wondering if you were planning on coming back,” Paul says this carefully, not looking at Daryl.

Daryl shifts in his chair, “The roads are still shit.”

“Well, few more weeks’ work the roads will be clear, they’re hard at work on their end. They’re getting about half as much rain down there as we are.”

“Tryin’ to get rid of me?” Daryl asks. It’s a joke but his heart speeds up regardless.

“Oh yeah. I told Aaron that every day with you is a torment and to please send someone to take you back,” he says with a grin. Daryl gives him the finger.

“Asshole,” Daryl says, then, “I haven’t made up my mind.”

Paul’s smile has faded, “Well. You must miss everyone there. Rick and Michonne asked about you all the time, you are definitely _missed._ I’ll be making a trip there soon; Aaron told me they have extra solar panels there and with Eugene’s instructions we’ll be able to set them up here. _”_

Daryl swallows and looks at his hands. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding, it’s sped up to a jittery rhythm. The question of whether or not to go back to Alexandria scares him a surprising amount. He _has_ thought about going back, and he _does_ miss Rick and Michonne. But he misses Carol just as much, and he knows if he goes to Alexandria to stay he will miss everyone here. Maggie, Glenn, Tara, and most of all the man in front of him. He’d still see Paul, but only every once in a while. No more midnight card games. No more waking up to Paul’s voice in the shower.

No more confusing thoughts about Paul either. No more catching him exercising shirtless and staring at the sweat beading on his chest. No more of this _thing_ between them. No more stupid innuendoes.

As much as a relief as that would be the thought of leaving this place and their little trailer is awful enough that Daryl can’t seriously consider it. 

“I’m staying here for the time bein’,” Daryl says finally, “Maybe I’ll go for a visit.” He says this doubtfully; he’s messed up and confused about where the fuck belongs just here at Hilltop, god knows how he’ll feel when he sees Rick and Michonne.

Paul doesn’t say anything but he looks pleased.

 

***************

 

Paul has been gone on his run to Alexandria for two days when Glenn asks Daryl if he’s up for making a run as well.

“A real one, it might take a day or two. Tara will go with you,” Glenn says.

“Got a specific place in mind?”

“Do you remember Riya?”

“The crazy librarian?”

“That’s her. I’ve been thinking about what she said, about how it might be useful to check out the library at the University she mentioned. I talked to Dr Carson about it, he said anything at all medical would be a godsend. He wants to start training some people so it’s more than just him and Alex to handle that stuff here.”

Daryl thinks it over, disquieted for reasons he can’t fully articulate to himself. What Glenn is asking seems unbelievably…frivolous. To risk lives to go on a run for _books_ on any subject.

 _It’s something you do when things are settled,_ he thinks to himself. Something you can only seriously even _think_ about when things are settled. Things aren’t _settled._ But they have plenty of food and this season they will be able to grow even more; start stocking up. If the solar panels end up working they can run the freezers and stockpile what they don’t eat for even longer. They have weapons, both melee weapons the blacksmith makes and surplus guns from the Sanctuary that were loaded with bullets created at Alexandria. Medicine is precious but most of it isn’t the sort of thing they can make themselves. Although Doctor Carson has been screwing around with bread mold, apparently that’s where penicillin originally comes from.

 _Do you ever think about it? Settling down,_ Abe had asked him the morning Paul took them all to the Hilltop for the first time. _You think shit’s settled,_ had been Daryl’s answer.

It occurs to Daryl that his stretch at the Hilltop has been the longest span of peace he’s had since this whole thing started. Even longer than at the prison—they were there maybe four months before the Governor came and blew the whole thing to hell. He’s been at Hilltop over five. Those five months haven’t been “without incident” but they haven’t had to run or face anything that couldn’t be easily dispatched.

He remembers Maggie quoting Rick, saying that they could build a place where they could stop surviving and start living. He’s used to only thinking of the present and the immediate future. Surviving. What would that even look like for him? The vision that comes to him is basically what his life has already been like for the past several months. Working with Glenn and Maggie. Eating breakfast with Paul before they went out to do their respective parts in keeping this place running. Coming home for dinner and playing cards until two a.m. Doing this for the _next_ five months, or the next five _years._

_Have to build something more permanent onto the trailer, I can’t take another winter huddling in Barrington House._

“Daryl?” Glenn says, shaking him out of his thoughts, “What do you think? Do you want to do it?”

“Sure,” Daryl says, feeling like he’s agreeing to something a helluva lot more than just going to go get books.

 

***************

The buildings of the University are made of pale limestone and it looks like a place in England Daryl has only seen in movies. Tara calls it “faux Oxford” and Daryl calls it uppity. Even so he can’t deny that once upon a time the campus must have been lovely. There are a lot of trees and green space. It’s early spring now and the bare branches of the trees are sprouting delicate green buds. They make their way through campus, following signs that point toward the library.

“It’s nice here,” Tara says as they drive through. Daryl nods and thinks of the Kingdom. It had once been a high school, he thinks this would be an even better place. There was fencing and walls that could be fortified. Dormitories for people to live. It was a little far from the other settlements but maybe if things kept quiet they could one day expand their way out here.

The library makes up one side of the campus “quad”. Any restraint that the campus architects had used when creating their “faux Oxford” style is thrown out of the window with this building. It looks more like a miniature castle than a library, complete with a couple of square turrets. Even the entryway is designed to evoke a drawbridge.

The front doors have been shattered and Daryl and Tara make their way cautiously inside. The floor of the lobby is covered with a fall of dead brown leaves that crunch beneath their feet.

There is a large, L-shaped desk labelled “circulation” on one end and “reference” on the other. When Daryl peers behind it to look for any walkers he sees the remains of a long abandoned campfire. It’s surrounded by empty beer bottles and to his dismay Daryl sees whoever camped out here had used books for kindling. He hopes none of them were medical textbooks.

“Here,” Tara says. She’s gone to the side of the desk labeled “reference” and is holding up a sheet of paper that is yellowed with age. When Daryl comes over to take a look he sees it is a printed out map of the different floors of the building. Daryl digs around in his pocket for the list Riya the crazy librarian had given them and spreads it out next to the map:

_Call numbers Q, R, S, T._

_R= Medical,_ _TOP PRIORITY._ _Focus on RC, RD, RS._

 _S= Agriculture, 2_ _ nd _ _priority._

_Q= Science. Focus on chemistry-QE? QD?_

_T= Technology. Focus on Mech. Engineering & construction._

_Bound journals on any of these subjects, newest yrs only._

_“_ Most of these are upstairs,” Daryl says after he consults the map, which tells him that N-Z are on the second floor.

Tara leans over his shoulder and taps her finger against the bottom of the list, “What about that one? It’s in the basement.” Underneath the note journals is thick black line and under that _B???-History of Philosophy_ is scrawled in Daryl’s own messy handwriting.

Daryl’s cheeks heat up, “It ain’t important. Just if we have time.”

“It’s in the basement, so are the bound journals. We can look when we go down there.”

“Let’s get the important shit first,” Daryl says.

 

*******************

Study tables and desks make up the center of the second floor, surrounding them on all sides are the bookshelves. The floor is illuminated by weak light that filters in from the the ornate windows, many of which are broken. More lighting comes from skylights that miraculously seems to have survived but it only lights the study tables. The actual shelves are shadowed and creepy as fuck.

He and Tara split the list in between them. Daryl isn’t sure what will or won’t be useful; just grabs everything in his assigned section that looks in good shape.

Their priority sections aren’t very extensive but there are still more books that they can carry in one trip. To that end they fill up duffle bags full of books, haul them downstairs to the lobby, empty them, then go back for more.

Eventually the lobby floor is covered in piles of books, more than Daryl thinks they can fit into the car. It looks a lot like the floor of his and Paul’s trailer, a thought that makes him smile.

 _He’d go out of his mind here,_ Daryl thinks. That reminds him of his last entry on his list.

Daryl goes to stairs that lead down to the basement and his heart sinks. No windows to let light down there, just yawning blackness.

Tara comes up to his side and lets out a low whistle, “I guess the journals are a bust.” They have flashlights but that’s not really enough to do a search through shelf upon shelf of books. Especially if there are any walkers down there. Tara goes back to their gathered pile of books on the floor, looking through the titles.

Daryl looks at the call number again and dithers for a minute. He looks back at Tara, chews on his lips, then goes to collect a few of the empty beer bottles scattered around. Once he has a few he gets his crossbow and flashlight. “I’ll be right back,” he calls to Tara, then heads down the stairs.

Halfway down he shines the light down into the blackness. There’s no movement. Next he starts tossing the bottles down one after another, waiting a few beats between each throw. Nothing comes.

“Daryl?” Tara calls softly from the top of the stairs.

“I’ll be quick. Wait there,” he says, and plunges down into the blackness.

The basement was probably dank and creepy even when there was power to operate the lights; now it’s pitch black and Daryl’s heart keeps starting at shadows that appear whenever he moves the beam of the flashlight.

The good news is he doesn’t have to go far to find the philosophy section, the bad news is that it’s fucking huge. The “B” section is two whole rows of shelves before it turns into “BA”. Daryl drums his fingers against his thigh and starts looking, scanning the titles as quickly as he can.

He starts going through the Bs, beginning at the end. The sign on the shelves says B900-B500 and he flashes the light over the spines and scans the titles. He’s halfway through the section and about to give up when he sees it:

Marcus Aurelius: _Meditations._ There are four different editions and he crosses his fingers as he takes them out one by one to see who the translator is.

“Fuckin’ A,” he says, a grin splitting his face. The third copy has “ _a new translation by Gregory Hays”_ written under the title. He tucks it into the pocket of his vest and gets the hell out of there.

*****************

Loading the car is another challenge. There is only so much space, they have to move and shift books around to fit as many in as possible. While Tara plays “car tetris” Daryl starts hauling books out from lobby, a sackful at a time.

“This one goes up front with me!” Tara says after Daryl unloads a sack in front of her. When Daryl looks up she’s holding a book up and grinning, “I went looking for something special too.” It’s a book called _The Great American Pin-Up._ On the covers is 40’s style painting of a girl in a white dress and a sailor hat using a ship’s mast as a stripper pole. Her skirt is blown up and the artist has added just a hint of visible panty. “If you’re very nice,” Tara continues, “I’ll let you borrow it when I’m done.”

Daryl’s face gets hot and he goes to grab another sack full of books. When he comes back he passes by the passenger window and sees that Tara wasn’t kidding; _The Great American Pin-Up_ is on the front seat.

He dumps his sack of books out and before he realizes he’s going to speak asks, “How did you know?” He regrets it as soon as the words are out.

“Sorry?” Tara says, frowning.

“That you were. You know,” he wants to stop talking, but it’s out. “That you liked girls.”

“How did _you_ know that you liked girls?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Forget it,” Daryl snaps, and goes to get another sack. When he comes back out Tara isn’t loading books into the trunk; she’s just staring at him open-mouthed.

“What?” he asks.

Her face dead serious when she asks, “Honest question, Daryl. How did you know you liked girls? _Do_ you like girls?”

Daryl looks away, drumming his fingers against his leg.

“Holy shit,” whispers Tara, “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Ain’t nothing to say,” he answers, then, “I’m forty-four fucking years old, it’s a bit too late to start wonderin’. I should know by now.”

Tara doesn’t dignify that with a response, the expression on her face speaks for itself. Daryl’s face gets hotter and he starts to stomp back inside the library.

“Gillian Anderson!” Tara blurts out. It’s so random Daryl stops, turns around, and gives her a ‘What the fuck’ look. Her cheeks are pink, “Gillian Anderson. That’s how I knew. She was on that TV show, the _X-Files_. Did you ever watch it?”

“I seen a couple episodes,” he mutters.

“Well, my parents wouldn’t let me watch it, I was only about ten or so when it came on, but my sister and I would sneak in and watch it anyway. And Agent Scully…she was _everything_ to me. I dressed up as her for Halloween for two years in a row, wanted to be an FBI Agent and a doctor and everything,” Tara smiles a little, “It took me until I was thirteen or so to realize I didn’t want to _be_ her, I wanted to _fuck_ her. It took me until I was in high school to realize that feeling wasn’t exclusive to Gillian Anderson. That I wanted to fuck a lot of my friends that I thought I just looked up to and thought were cool. And I didn’t feel the same about the handful of guys I tried to go on dates with.”

She waits for Daryl to respond. He doesn’t; just stares at her then turns back around and continues into the library. He’s not trying to be rude, he just doesn’t trust himself to speak.

His hands are shaking when he starts loading books into sacks. His mind is a goddamned tangled _mess._ He starts thinking of Deedee Packer’s trailer on a Friday night over thirty years ago. Both of them tucked up onto the couch laughing at the _Dukes of Hazzard._ Daryl thinking he wanted to be just like that when he got older. He automatically cringes in embarrassment at that thought, like he had when telling the story to Paul a few months back. But why? It was stupid kid shit, he’s told Paul about some of his exploits with Merle that are far more embarrassing. Why the fuck after _everything_ was something like that lodged in his mind like a stubborn little splinter?

A very different memory comes to him then, of a bar fight he’d gotten into years ago. Guy with sandy brown hair, blue eyes, narrow hips, and a tattoo in Latin on his index finger. Something about the guy had just rubbed him the wrong way. Daryl remembers looking at him and getting pissed off. It got worse throughout the evening. Daryl doesn’t remember who threw the first punch but he does remember grappling in the dirt with him, up close and personal.

A more recent memory: going with Rick to meet the Governor. While the two men tried to come to an agreement Daryl had paced outside with Andrea and the Governor’s man Martinez. Daryl thinks of the group of walkers coming, the three of them dispatching them with ease. Seeing Martinez take several out with just a bat and muscle. Daryl killed the last one just as Martinez went for it by throwing a knife at it before he could. _Showing off._ They’d smoked a few cigarettes after, chatting about their lives and Daryl found himself feeling regretful that they were on opposite sides of this mess.

Rick himself comes to his mind without warning. He remembers that warm flush of pleasure he got in the early days, whenever he trusted Daryl with something, to be his right hand man. Rick with his blue eyes and lean muscle, the kind of guy Daryl could never come close to being, the fact that Rick trusted and respected him was more than he deserved.

He recoils from the thought, Rick is his damn _brother_ ; surely he didn’t think of him that way. _He wasn’t always your brother,_ a treacherous voice whispers. At first Rick had been a pain in the ass. They didn’t start getting close until the winter they spent moving around after Hershel’s farm. Rick and Lori were barely speaking, Rick would come and talk to Daryl instead and Daryl remembers loving it, greedy for the attention Rick paid him.

He’s not sure exactly when that changed; when Rick stopped being this…role model and started being his brother. He knows he no longer feels that way about Rick, instead he feels similar warm affection for him that he feels for Carol.

Carol.

He’d never had women friends before Carol and Michonne, being around women made him nervous. Made him feel like things were _expected_ of him. Any time he had a friendly relationship with a woman Merle would rag on him, wanting to know why Daryl hadn’t fucked her yet. Then Merle was gone (except for his ghost, which Daryl still carries around) and he was able to relax.

He remembers how Carol had flirted with him before, how uncomfortable it made him. But he’d told her to stop and she did. Later she would make comments in jest but by then he knew her, knew she would never _expect_ him to give her anything he didn’t want to.

 _Why didn’t we get together,_ he thinks. She’s beautiful, he knows this objectively. She understood him better than anyone and she was one of the few people he felt safe with. One of the even fewer people he felt comfortable touching and being touched by in return. _I didn’t feel the same about the handful of guys I tried to go on dates with._

Daryl tries to remember the last time he had sex, and who with. It had been at least a year before the end, he thinks. Some woman he met in a bar, he’d had her in the back of his truck quick and dirty. He tries to remember her name and face and can’t. Fact was that he had been so fucking wasted he hadn’t been able to keep it up for more than a minute or two. Thankfully she had been equally wasted and thought he just shot his load early.

The thing is this could describe a large number of his sexual encounters, they all sort of run together. He doesn’t think he’s ever had sex sober outside of his first time, a thought that unsettles him.

 _His first time_. He unwillingly examines that memory. His father laying into Daryl with his fists, he doesn’t remember the _why_ but he does remember it was something that made his Daddy call him a sissy, not a real man.

 _You’re sweet but you ain’t no sissy. Not no more._ That was one of the things she’d said that night _after,_ when they lying in bed naked and Daryl was staring at the ceiling With his stomach in knots. Had she in some fucked up way been trying to _help_ him?

“Daryl?”

He jumps and nearly has a heart attack. Tara has come in unnoticed. He realizes that he had finished loading up his sacks of books and is just crouched on the ground staring off into space.

Tara opens her mouth then closes it when she sees the look on Daryl’s face. “Unless you want to spend the night here we need to get loaded up,” she says eventually.

Daryl gives her a distracted nod.

***************

“It’s not too late,” Tara says out of nowhere, voice soft. They are on their way back to the Hilltop, Daryl is driving and they’ve hardly said two words to each other the entire time. Daryl takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at her. She’s staring ahead as she continues, “You said before that it was too late to start wondering about things. It’s not. Especially,” she fidgets and turns to look at him, “Especially if there’s someone in particular that made you start wondering.”

Daryl hates being this transparent. He feels a familiar flush creeping up his neck and to his face, “Dunno what you mean.” He hopes she will drop it.

She doesn’t. “You do realize that whether you and Jesus are a thing is one of the biggest topics of gossip in all of Hilltop, right? I’ve witnessed some pretty intense debates on the subject. Group one thinks you are, group two thinks you aren’t but will be, group three thinks you’re just friends. I’m group three. But my gaydar has always been shitty.”

Daryl almost asks her to fucking shoot him. It’s preferable to having to go back to the Hilltop with that knowledge. He knew that some people had _assumed_ things about his relationship with Paul in the beginning but he thought everyone had finally gotten it in their heads that it wasn’t like that.

 _Do I want it to be like that,_ he thinks involuntarily. Fuck if he knows. Tara is wrong, he _is_ too old to start figuring this out.

Tara is _still_ talking, “I’m gonna look pretty stupid, but that’s ok. I’ve gone on so many tirades about how being gay doesn’t mean you can’t have straight friends.”

“Please stop,” he says. Any more and he won’t even need to ask her to shoot him. Surely this much embarrassment is fatal. Thankfully she does.

 

***********

Later at the trailer Daryl can't sleep. He shifts in bed, turns his pillow over trying to find the cool side. His mind is still whirring away, making connections. _Am_ I, he thinks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that question.

Merle’s ghost is already laughing and calling him a faggot.

 _Merle Dixon is fucking dead and he was full of shit when he was alive._ Daryl flinches at the fierceness of that thought, hardly believing it came from his own mind. It was the simple truth though; Daryl loved Merle, would always love him, he was an asshole but there was a time when he was all Daryl had. But he was fucking dead, and he’d been wrong about almost every single thing he told Daryl.

Okay. Maybe Daryl is…like that. _Probably_ is like that _._ It doesn’t make him less of a man, he’s never felt disgust for Aaron or Tara or Denise. As for Paul the other man may be the best friend he’s ever had and he is a complete fucking _badass._

How could he know for sure? He’s not about to ask Paul to get naked with him so Daryl can experiment. Even thinking about it makes him want to find a nice hole to crawl in and die, it’s so goddamned mortifying. His mind is good with coming up with the jokes Paul would make, the way his laughter would sound. He would probably still be up for it, whatever _it_ was. Daryl can’t even imagine what it would be like. He runs into the same problem as always when he tries to insert himself into his fantasies. Reality intrudes and he can’t stop thinking about what he’d do wrong, or how he’d react when Paul put his hands on him. He trusts Paul, he _thinks_ he’d be ok with it.

The memory of trailing his fingers down Paul’s cheek comes to him and how his beard felt beneath the pads of his fingers. Of how during their crossbow lesson Daryl had put his hands on Paul without second thought, only realizing what he was doing when he touched his fingers. Ok. So Daryl is pretty sure he could do the whole touching thing.

 _Great, so you think you can touch him. There’s a bit more to it than that._ Fuck. This whole line of thinking is pointless anyways. He is more than a decade Paul’s senior and the last guy Paul slept with was closer to his age, better looking, and probably knows what to do with another man in bed. If Daryl is attracted or curious about Paul admitting it to himself doesn’t matter.

***********

Except it does matter, it matters a whole fucking lot because Daryl can’t stop thinking about it. Every time Paul comes to mind Daryl finds himself thinking about how many muscles he hides under all those layers of clothes, about how he deadly he is in a fight and about how skilled his fingers are when picking locks.

He feels like he has had some kind of an animal locked up inside him for decades, isolated and mad with starvation. Then one day Daryl opened the door to its cage just a _crack_ and the thing lunged out and is currently savaging anything it can get its teeth on.

He has a goddamned _wet dream_ one night, something he’s only had to deal with a handful of times since he was a teenager. It involved Paul’s hands on him, sliding down his stomach to slip under the waistband of his jeans and palming Daryl’s dick. He has to haul his sheets and his boxers into the bathroom to scrub them down in the shower. No way in _hell_ is giving Miss Dina come-stained sheets to wash.

He has no idea what is going to happen when Paul comes back from Alexandria and Daryl has to try and exist in the same cramped space. It should be any day now.

************

_“And those were days of roses, poetry and prose_

_And Martha all I had was you and all you had was me_

_There was no tomorrows, we packed away our sorrows_

_And we saved them for a rainy day_

_And I remember quiet evenings_

_Trembling close to you-“_

 

Daryl jerks awake. Paul is back, he must have either slipped in last night after Daryl went to sleep or come in this morning and gone immediately to his shower. Daryl swallows, tells himself not to be a chickenshit and gets out of bed.

“Mornin’,” Daryl says when Paul comes into the kitchen a few minutes later. He’s wearing a white button up shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His forearms look strong, despite his deceptively slender wrists. Daryl jerks his eyes away from them. _I can’t even look at his fucking arms,_ he thinks in disgust.

“Good morning,” Paul says cheerfully, “I see you survived my absence yet again.”

“Mmmm. How are things at Alexandria?”

“Pretty good. Was able to get the solar panels back, it remains to be seen if we can get them working. And I brought us back something extra.” He goes to the cabinet and takes out an old jug, twists the top of and passes it to Daryl, who doesn’t even need to get it close to his face for it to make his eyes water.

“Fuck is this?” It smells like some of the worst kind of rot gut moonshine a man could encounter.

“Homemade hard cider,” Paul says, grinning a little, “Eugene brewed it up, I had some the other night and survived to tell the tale, but it was a close thing. It needs to be watered down. Like, a lot. Brought back a couple more jugs, the this one is just for us. My gift to you.”

Daryl shifts, “I got somethin’ for you too.” Now that it comes to it he feels a little silly.

“Is it as cool as strong alcohol of dubious origin?” Paul asks with a grin.

Daryl shrugs, “Probably not. Wait a minute.”

He goes back to his room to fetch the copy of _Meditations_ he got from the library, feeling stupid again. Whatever, Paul will like it, he likes any book.

“Here,” he says when he gets back to the kitchen.

“A book! Definitely cooler than alcohol of any origin, dubious or otherwise,” he says, taking the book from Daryl and glancing at the cover. He blinks in confusion, then his eyes widen in surprise and a smile of pure delight spreads across his face. “Where did you find _this?”_

“We finally made a run to that college Riya the crazy librarian was going on about,” Daryl replies, “We brought back a ton of stuff, most of it was medical books, if you want to take a look later.

Paul doesn’t answer, he’s staring at the book and his smile is fading. He looks up at Daryl and says, “I just…” he swallows, “I just can’t believe you remembered this.”

Daryl shifts uncomfortably. “Just spotted it on the shelf and it reminded me,” he lies.

“Oh really?” Paul says, a smile flicking across his face, “Well. Thank you.”

Daryl watches as Paul starts flipping through the book and wonders suddenly when was the last time someone gave Paul anything just _because_ and not as payment or a thank you. He remembers talking to Maggie ages ago, her saying that Paul is lonelier than he lets on. That holds people at a distance so skillfully that most people don’t even notice. He gives more than most and asks for little in return. Actively discourages it,in fact. Was unable to be comfortable in the little trailer he’s fucking earned a hundred times over without sharing it with someone. His only indulgence were his hot showers that he created with parts he had acquired himself.

Whatever anxiety Daryl feels over trying to figure out if he’s _attracted_ to Paul on top of everything else can be dealt with. It’s enough, he thinks, just to be his friend.

************

They’re able to get the solar panels working in less than a week, a fact that stuns the entire community. It’s not much, but it’s enough to power the freezers and charge up batteries. The next night is warm enough that they can all eat outside again. Paul goes out on a quick run in the afternoon, and when he comes back he’s brought several strands of clear Christmas lights. They string them over the long tables and benches where dinner is served.

That evening a festive mood takes over the Hilltop, the sort of which Daryl hasn’t witnessed in years. The supply of cider from Alexandria helps maintain it. Paul hasn’t brought back much but like he said the stuff needs a _lot_ of watering down. It’s weak and tastes like piss but everyone is a lightweight these days.

The atmosphere gets even to Daryl, and he allows Paul to drag him out to the communal dinner instead of hiding in the trailer. Paul at the very least allows him to sit partly away from the mass of people.

Not that it makes much difference in the end. It’s impossible to be out in public with Paul Rovia and not get visited by dozens of people over the course of the night. Daryl slouches down in his seat and lets Paul deal with them. 

Tara stops by at one point but doesn’t stay long. There is another run planned to Alexandria early tomorrow morning and she wants to get some sleep. She asks Daryl if he’s sure he doesn’t want to come and he tells her he is.

As the evening wears on it turns into an actual party. There’s even music, after the food is eaten a group of Hilltop folks produce a variety of instruments and start playing. Some people even get up to dance.

“How ‘bout it, Daryl?” Paul asks playfully.

“Fuck you,” is the answer. He remains seated, sipping on weak cider that tastes so awful that the slight buzz he’s getting isn’t worth it.

Maggie and Glenn aren’t able to make their way over to them for a long time. Throughout the evening members of the community have been monopolizing their time, it seems like everyone has something to say about the solar panels and many them have a _need_ to shake Maggie or Glenn’s hands.

“Ah, finally!” Paul says with a grin, “Now I know _you_ won’t turn me down.”

Maggie seems subdued, but she still accepts Paul’s offer for a dance. The musicians are playing a slower song now, something sweet and sad. Daryl watches them, realizing Maggie isn’t just subdued, she’s upset. She’s talking to Paul as they dance, her face trembling. Paul looks concerned as he listens.

“Is Maggie all right?” Daryl asks Glenn.

His friend looks worried and unhappy, “I don’t think so, no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea,” Glenn says, looking pained, “She’s been working nonstop this past week, I’ve barely seen her. When I do she’s too exhausted to talk. I don’t…things are going well. I know there’s a lot to do, but…”

Daryl frowns and looks back at Maggie and Paul. They’ve finished discussing whatever and she has her arms around his neck and her face against his shoulder. They’re not so much dancing as swaying to the rhythm of the music. When the song ends she holds onto him for a bit longer before pulling away. He gives her hand a squeeze and they make their way back to Daryl and Glenn.

“Hey babe,” Glenn says, lifting a hand out to her. She takes it in her own, “What—“

“Do you want to dance with me?” Maggie asks before he can say anything else, her voice artificially bright.

“Um. Sure?” Glenn says. He’s gotten slightly better at controlling his expressions but not good enough to disguise the worry on his face.

“Well, come on then,” she says.

Glenn hesitates then hands his walking stick to Daryl, “Hold this.” Maggie guides him out a ways to the makeshift dance floor. Maggie loops her arms around Glenn’s neck and they start slowly moving to the music. Daryl wonders if they’ve ever gotten the chance to dance before. If so he’s never seen them. The expression on Maggie’s face as she looks at Glenn seems too intimate all of the sudden, so Daryl averts his eyes.

“What were the two of you talking about?” Daryl asks Paul.

“About what a rad party this is,” Paul answers flippantly. He looks over at Daryl and gets serious, “It’s…well, it’s not _nothing_ , but not something she wants to discuss with everyone.”

“She’s ok though, right?” Daryl asks.

Paul’s eyes are thoughtful as he watches Maggie and Glenn dance. “Yeah, she’s fine,” he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?”

Daryl scowls and doesn’t answer him.

“What if I get you drunk first?”

Daryl responds by handing over what’s left of his cider. Paul accepts it and says, “You’re a very cruel man, Daryl.” He takes a long swallow, then leans back into the chair and closes his eyes. He’s loose limbed and smiling a little, cheeks flush. Daryl is able to study him unobserved. Being his friend really is enough.

“ _Such_ a cruel man,” Paul continues, “Must you crush my heart so? I’m going to whither away.”

“You can’t be that hard up,” Daryl says.

“Now Daryl how can you expect me to believe you don’t appreciate my attentions when you leave yourself wide open like that?” Paul huffs out a laugh, “Please watch me behave myself and not make any comments about how _hard up_ I am, or about you being wide open.”

Daryl isn’t sure what possesses him to say, “You best watch yourself, one of these days I’m gonna call your bluff. Make you put your money where your mouth is.”

“Jesus Daryl, now you’re just giving it to me. I’m not a saint,” Paul says, “I’m happy to put anything you want near my mouth.”

Daryl kicks his leg and Paul just laughs again. “I thought you quit that shit,” Daryl grumbles out.

“I had, but now you’ve given me hope it will one day work.”

“Prick.”

“There you go, with your cute little pet names. You really do send out mixed signals, Daryl,” he says, going back to his cider. He turns to look at the bonfire and Daryl studies the other man’s profile. Bits of his beard glint gold in the light of the fire there’s a fine sheen of perspiration at his temples and cheeks. As Daryl watches, Paul takes a swig from his cup of cider, and when he lowers the cup his lips and beard are wet.

Paul wipes his mouth, then turns to look at Daryl, who quickly looks away. He doesn’t want to be caught staring. He glances back and Paul hasn’t stopped looking at him. Their eyes meet, and Paul goes very still, his playfulness melting away. Daryl can feel the flush creeping up his neck and to his cheeks but he can’t look away. Paul’s expression is the same one he gets right before he drop kicks a walker or jumps from a second story building. It makes Daryl’s skin feel too hot and too tight. Part of him wants to ask what the fuck Paul’s looking at but he’s having trouble making his voice work.

Paul swallows, muscles of his throat rippling. Eyes never leaving Daryl’s he gets deliberately to his feet and says, “I think I’m done for the night, I’m gonna head back. Do you want to come with me?”

It takes a few seconds for Daryl to realize that this is an offer, and a genuine one.

He’s terrified.

Since his conversation with Tara he has been doing his best to ignore this _thing_ between the two of them by telling himself that even if he is…curious…it didn’t matter. Paul wasn’t being serious when he made those outrageous offers or flirted with him, it was just to fuck with him.

That safe little illusion is gone; there’s not a hint of teasing in Paul’s voice or face. Daryl could get up right now, go back to the trailer with him, and…well. Find out once and for all if he’s actually gay.

“Nah,” Daryl croaks out, “‘M good.”

Paul’s expression doesn’t change. He waits a few beats before he says very kindly, “OK. See you later, whenever you’re done here. Don’t worry about waking me up, I’m going to read for a bit.”

Then he turns and walks away. Daryl watches him go, melting into the shadows as he leaves the glow of the fire.

Daryl needs a cigarette. He fumbles for the pack and the book of matches in his vest pocket. His hands are trembling so much it takes a few tries to strike a match. He finally manages to get the cigarette lit, and he inhales deeply. Blows it out with a shaky breath. Takes another drag.

It doesn’t help. His pulse is still thudding at his temples and sweat breaks out across his forehead. His skin feels over-sensitized and he’s very _aware_ of the way his clothes feel against it. He needs to sit here until it passes. He finishes one cigarette and immediately lights another. He closes his eyes and takes a long drag off it. It makes even his tar hardened lungs burn. He hasn’t calmed down a bit; the opposite has happened. Maybe he should choke down some more of Eugene’s cider, get more than just a little buzz. Or wait long enough until he’s sure Paul’s asleep and take a cold shower.

Instead of doing either of those things Daryl crushes the cigarette against the bottom of his boot, gets to his feet, and heads off in the direction of their trailer. He forces himself to take deep breaths and to walk at a normal pace, one that is not faster or slower than his usual one. Part of him scared he’d missed his opportunity, another part of him is just as scared that he _hasn’t._

The walk is long enough for every doubt and fear to form in his mind. What the hell did he think he was doing? Long enough for the horrible idea that this was another joke, that Paul hadn’t been serious and Daryl was misreading everything. His mind paints a vivid picture for him, Paul looking at him in confusion, maybe even trying not to laugh, not able to believe that Daryl took the joke seriously.

The walk is short enough that he finds himself at their trailer before he’s ready. He stands at the foot of the steps, nerve starting to fail him. This was a mistake, he should go back, or just slip in and go straight to his room. Wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened.

 _Shit Darylina if you’re going to be a fag at least be fucking man about it_ , the Ghost of Merle Dixon chimes in from where he lives in the back of Daryl’s head. For once he’s not completely full of shit. Daryl steels himself, takes a deep breath, and goes up the steps.

When he steps inside the trailer is dark but for a little pool of light coming from Paul’s half-open door. Daryl’s heart stutters in his chest, and he stands just inside the front door for a few seconds. His pulse is pounding in his temples and every muscle is taut. He makes himself move down the narrow hallway; when he gets to his door he hesitates again, _last chance last chance_ flashing in his head. He shoves that cowardly thought away and makes himself push the door all the way open and look inside.

Paul’s reclining in bed against the pillows with the book he must have been reading lying forgotten by his side. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and nothing else. Daryl’s seen him shirtless before but now he’s not trying to pretend or shove any of this thoughts away and he can just _look_. Daryl takes in the lean muscle of his chest, the way the muscles of his stomach tense and relax with Paul’s heavy breathing, the dark hair that feathers out from his navel to down beneath the waistband of his sweats and the swell of his dick beneath that.

Daryl’s not sure how long he stands there staring and saying nothing before Paul draws in a sharp breath, pushes himself off the bed, and strides toward him. Daryl feel like every step the other man takes jacks his heart rate up another notch. Paul stops a few inches away; this close his eyes are very green, the pupils wide and dark. Daryl can see the pulse beating in his throat. Daryl wants to touch him, badly, but he’s frozen in place.

Paul takes Daryl’s face in his hands, causing him to flinch and his muscles tense up. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut. He’s trembling and has to fight to catch his breath. Paul runs a thumb down Daryl’s cheekbone to his lower lip then slides his hands back, tangles his fingers in Daryl’s hair, digs his nails into the scalp, and tugs his head down.

The first kiss is gentle, just Paul pressing his lips against him closed mouthed. Gentle or not it lights up Daryl’s entire nervous system up from the base of his spine to the top of his head. When Paul kisses him again the sensation of the other man’s beard scraping against his own makes him fucking _whimper_. Paul’s fingers tighten in Daryl’s hair and he starts kissing him wet and open mouthed. Daryl is still frozen, his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides and lips slack as Paul licks into his mouth, rubbing their tongues together in long, dirty slides. Daryl can’t remember the last time he was kissed by anyone, and no one’s ever kissed him like this. He tries to relax and respond, opening his mouth wider and trying to figure out what to do with his own tongue. He can taste the cider they’d been drinking on Paul’s mouth, it tastes much better than he remembers.

Paul’s breath hitches and he lets out a pleased little groan. The sound of it causes a wave of savage _want_ to slam into Daryl with the force of a shotgun blast and temporarily knocks away fear and uncertainty. He lets out a desperate growl and grabs Paul, crushing him against his chest so hard the other man stumbles and is nearly knocked of his feet. Paul gasps in surprise and Daryl starts attacking his mouth. He’s clumsy and awkward; knocking their teeth together and getting his nose in the way but he can’t stop. He can feel the heat of Paul’s bare skin through the cloth of his own shirt and when he touches it with his hands he almost expects to get burnt. He digs his fingers in and drags long scratches down Paul’s back; breaks away from his mouth to bite his neck and shoulders, pressing his teeth in and sucking on skin. Paul tastes like salt and smells like woodsmoke.

“Daryl…Daryl _stop_ ,” Paul says and yanks his hair. The words cut through Daryl’s haze of desire like a whip and he goes rigid. Humiliation twists through him, why the fuck did he think coming back was a good idea. He’s going at this wrong, he has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do. He drops his hands from Paul’s back and starts pulling away but the other man doesn’t let him. His hands clench tightly into Daryl’s hair, halting him. Paul leans forward and presses their foreheads together then starts stroking Daryl like he’s a spooked animal. They’re both shivering and gasping for air.

“Hey,” Paul whispers, “It’s ok. Just slow down a little,” He presses a soft kiss against the corner of Daryl’s mouth, then several more against his jaw. He slides one arm so that his elbow is hooked around Daryl’s neck then reaches down with his free hand to take one of Daryl’s and guides to his waist. Paul’s skin is hot underneath his palm and Daryl forces himself to breathe, to be gentle when he slides his hand up Paul’s back. He takes his other hand and rests it lightly against Paul’s hip. When they kiss again it’s slow and careful, Daryl lets other man set the pace and tries to control himself.

He only partly succeeds. Before Daryl knows it that heady desire is rushing back. This time it’s not a mindless explosion but the kisses still start becoming rougher, his grip harder. Paul slides his palm up Daryl’s stomach to his chest and his elegant fingers unbutton Daryl’s shirt with the same rapid skill that he uses to pick locks and rifle unnoticed through Daryl’s pockets.

Paul pulls away from his mouth and takes a step back to push the shirt down Daryl’s shoulder’s. Daryl lowers his arms and lets it slide to the floor. Paul lays his hand flat on Daryl’s chest, fingers spreading to trace the muscle there. He leans forward and presses his lips against Daryl’s collar bone. Daryl’s heart seems to stop for the briefest of moments before rocketing back to top speed. It happens again when Paul tilts his head and drags his mouth down. The sensation caused by contrast between his rough beard and soft lips and tongue makes Daryl groan. Paul kisses his way back up Daryl’s shoulders and neck all the way to his mouth.

He winds his arms around Daryl’s neck, getting in close. Daryl tries not to crush him this time when he squeezes him tightly. Now that there’s no clothing Daryl can feel the coarse hair of Paul’s stomach and the hard planes of his chest. Paul’s hand is roaming all over his back and Daryl flinches when the other man’s fingers brush over one of his scars. Paul notices and he pauses kissing to check Daryl’s face, “What’s wrong?"

Daryl is breathing hard, heart jackhammering away in his chest. He’s still trying to think of something to say when it occurs to him that Paul isn’t paying this scar any particular attention, he’s treating it like any other piece of skin. Daryl can even feel that patch of Paul’s own scars beneath his fingertips. “Nothin’,” he says. Paul studies his face for a few beats then presses their mouths back together.

The next time Paul’s hands encounter a scar Daryl barely notices, his mind is to focused on his own exploration of Paul’s body. He keeps it all above belt, he’s too nervous to go any lower. There’s enough to touch anyway, from Paul’s stomach to his shoulder muscles Daryl has to acquaint himself with every inch. They’re both wet with sweat, Daryl can feel it trickling down his back in rivulets, it makes him shiver.

Daryl feels the mattress hit the backs of his legs without warning and he starts. He hadn’t realized that Paul has maneuvered him all the way into the room. Paul leans against him, pushing him down and they both tumble into bed. It’s an awkward angle; he’s lying crosswise across it and his legs are dangling off the mattress. Paul’s laying on top of him so Daryl doesn’t care about anything else, though. It’s all skin against skin, hot and slick with sweat. Daryl has never been turned on like this before in his _life_. He may as well be a damned teenage virgin. Both their dicks are hard; he can feel Paul’s pressed against his stomach. He thrusts up against him then sucks in a pained breath when his zipper digs in.

“Shit,” he says, clenching his teeth, “I need-”

Paul lifts himself up and starts scrabbling at Daryl’s belt and zip, his normal dexterity abandoning him. He shoves them down to Daryl’s mid-thigh when the jeans get tangled on his boots. There’s a few awkward moments where Daryl struggles to kick them off. “Fucking shit motherfuckers—” Daryl snarls. He hears one of his shoelaces snap, and Paul bursts out laughing.

“Here, hold on, let me—” Paul slides off the bed, gets to his feet, and starts grappling with Daryl’s boots. Finally one then the other slips off, hitting the floor with a muted _thunk_. Paul grabs Daryl’s jeans by the cuffs and yanks them off the rest of the way, almost pulling Daryl off the mattress in the process. Then Daryl’s naked in front of another person for the first time in years (Carol sponging him down doesn’t count, damnit).

Paul stands there for a few seconds, eyes raking all over Daryl’s body. He’s breathing hard, and his parted lips are red and swollen from kissing. Daryl pushes himself up to his elbows, laying there with his legs loose and dick at attention. He fidgets under Paul’s scrutiny— he’s intensely aware of every single one of his scars, of the fact that there are a few fucking grey hairs in his pubes, and of every other imperfection he has.

Before these uncertainties can really take hold Paul is untying the drawstring of his sweats and sliding them off his hips. Daryl forgets everything else and just stares. He lets Daryl look for a few moments before climbing back onto the bed. He stretches out on his side next to Daryl and leans over him, propping himself up on one elbow and running his other hand from Daryl’s hip to his shoulder. Paul looks him in the eye and says, “What do you want?” 

Daryl stares at him, trying to catch his breath. He knows the words Paul has just said are English but he’s having trouble processing them. What does he want? Fuck, he thinks anything more than what they’re already doing is going to kill him. He stammers out, “I don’t…I ain’t never…”

Paul bends down and presses kisses against his neck and collar bone. He’s rolling his thumb over one of Daryl’s nipples and it makes thinking even more difficult. He asks, “What was that? Tell me. What do you want?” The words are hot against Daryl’s neck.

“Just,” Daryl gasps, “Just…anything. You. Just you.” He sounds needy and pathetic in his own ears.

Paul lifts his head up. When Daryl looks at him he seems almost vulnerable, and much younger than he actually is. Before Daryl can puzzle that look out Paul lunges up and kisses him, hard and fierce. When Paul pulls back Daryl whimpers and tries to chase after his mouth. Paul pushes himself up onto his knees out of reach and twists around to grope around in the top drawer of his nightstand, eventually fishing out a condom and lube from his stash. He tears the packet open with his teeth and stops, looking a little uncertain for the first time, “You’re ok with doing this, right? We don’t have to—“

Daryl stares up at him in disbelief, “Are you fucking kidding me,” he chokes out. Right now he is good with absolutely anything Paul wants to do so long as he does it soon and it involves Daryl’s dick in some way. Paul must have gotten the gist from his tone of voice because he wastes no time rolling the condom on Daryl then smearing a handful of lube over it. Daryl can feel the heat of his palm through the latex and his hips jerk involuntarily.

“Here, sit up and scoot back,” Paul says while tugging at Daryl’s hands. He obeys instantly, pushing himself so that he’s sitting in the center of the bed with his legs bent in front of him and his hands against his thighs.

Paul places his hands on Daryl’s shoulders for balance then slings a leg over his lap, lifting himself up on his knees. He bends down and kisses Daryl, bits of his hair brush against Daryl’s face.Daryl grips Paul’s thighs, and cautiously slides his palms upto clutch Paul’s hips, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his ass. Paul pulls away so they can look at each other face-to-face. He stares directly into Daryl’s eyes and lays a hand against his cheek, running his thumb over Daryl’s lips. Reaches down and takes Daryl in hand. He maintains eye contact as he slowly lowers himself onto Daryl’s dick.

“Oh,” tumbles out of Daryl’s mouth and then again when Paul squirms a little; adjusting his knees and getting comfortable. He winds his arms around Daryl’s neck and cradles the back of his head. Presses kisses against Daryl’s temple.

“You good?” Paul gasps. Daryl can feel the other man’s chest heaving against his own. If Daryl had the ability to form coherent words at this moment he would say that no, he’s not good, “good” is several rungs down the ladder from where he is now. All he can do is lean forward and bury his face against Paul’s neck with a wordless moan and hook his arms around Paul’s lower back to pull him as close as he can.

Paul gets the message; he twists his fingers in Daryl’s hair, yanks his head back and kisses him roughly, teeth digging into Daryl’s lip. Then he pulls back again so he can watch Daryl’s face as he starts rolling his hips against him, slow and steady.

“Oh _god_ ,” Daryl groans. He squeezes his eyes shut and his mouth falls open. It’s too much; overstimulating to the point of pain. He wants to thrust but he can’t really in this position. He’s completely at Paul’s mercy and all he can do is whimper and beg and clutch at every bit of bare skin he can reach.

Sex has never been like this; he had no _idea_ sex could be like this. That it could not just feel good but feel _right_. Everything about it. The feel of Paul’s lean muscles moving beneath sweat-slick skin, the hard angles and lines of his chest. The rough of his beard when Daryl kisses him and the way his mouth tastes. The sensation of his hard dick sliding over Daryl’s stomach and the groans he makes with every thrust.

It doesn’t last long. Paul lets out a surprised gasp and cries out, hands scrabbling over Daryl’s shoulders; thighs squeezing Daryl’s hips. He mouths at Daryl’s face then starts moving in ernest, no rhythm now just something base and primal. Daryl looks up at him. In the past he has never been comfortable about looking someone he was fucking in the face, hated seeing the boredom or amusement. Now he can’t look away, Paul’s eyes are closed and his lips are parted and he’s muttering a low litany of nonsense words, lost. The knowledge that he looks like that because of Daryl is enough to push him over the edge. Every muscle in Daryl’s body tenses and he lets out a low, guttural cry. Then that’s it, he’s gone, lost in an orgasm so intense he sees stars.

When it’s over he shivers uncontrollably as all his strength runs out of him like water from a sieve. His hands slide down and off Paul’s back and he sags against him, face pressed into his shoulder. Paul holds him up, arms wrapped around his chest. Daryl is vaguely aware of Paul’s dick against him; he hasn’t gotten off yet. Daryl knows he should do something, he needs to do something, reciprocate somehow. He will once he can catch his breath and stop shaking. Before he can do either Paul places both hands against Daryl’s chest and _shoves._ Daryl slams back onto the mattress with a surprised gasp and Paul grabs his wrists, pins them over his head, then presses the full length of his body against Daryl’s own. When he moves Daryl slips out of him, something that makes both of them twitch and moan. Then Paul starts laying sloppy kisses against his neck and jaw while he grinds frantically against Daryl’s stomach. It’s not long when he jerks his head up, digs his nails into Daryl’s wrists and comes while groaning out his name.

Paul collapses against his chest after, it knocks a little of the wind out Daryl. He’s gasping and Daryl can feel his hot breath against his neck and his wild heartbeat against his own. Paul’s grip on his wrists slackens. Daryl has to keep his arms where they are for a few beats before he can summon enough energy to lower them and he can slide his hands down Paul’s back and hold him close. After a few seconds Paul lifts himself up just enough to look at Daryl’s face. His pupils are wide and there are bright streaks of red on his cheekbones. His mouth works and Daryl thinks he’s about to say something but he doesn’t, just bends down and kisses him softly. He settles back onto Daryl’s chest when he’s done.

Daryl wonders if _he_ should say something but he can’t muster up any motivation. He just closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation of Paul’s weight against him. He’s drifting away and almost out when Paul rolls off. Daryl makes a noise of protest, and another when Paul swings his legs off the bed and gets to his feet.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers, and Daryl relaxes. Paul stands over the bed for a minute and studies him, lips curved into a little smile. Daryl studies him back—the other man is sweaty and flush and his neck is raw with stubble burn. Daryl keeps his eyes on him as he turns and walks out the bedroom door.

 _I do believe we’ve solved the riddle of whether or not you’re gay, Darylina._ Merle’s ghost sounds almost friendly. Daryl hears the sound of running water from the bathroom and his eyes slip closed, drifting away again.

He comes to a little at the mattress shifting beside him. He cracks open an eye and sees Paul sitting on the edge of the bed, washcloth in hand. He takes a moment to peel the condom off Daryl then starts wiping the sticky mess off Daryl’s stomach and chest.

“Damn cat,” Daryl mumbles.

“Sorry?” Paul says. Daryl can hear the smile on his voice.

“That’s what you are,” he says, closing his eyes again.

Paul lets out a huff of laughter and leans over to blow out the lantern, leaving the room in darkness. He settles down in the bed on his stomach next to Daryl, throwing an arm over his chest and pressing his face into the crook of Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl’s last thought before sleep claims him is just how well he fits there, like that spot was made for him.

******************

Paul is still there when Daryl wakes up the following morning. Daryl twists his neck to look down at him. He takes his free hand and cups Paul’s cheek. Paul stirs a little but doesn’t wake. Daryl traces the lines of his face slowly. Rubs his thumb against Paul’s beard. Tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear.

Something clenches in his chest, something so big and overwhelming he’s unable to breathe for a few seconds.

Daryl lets his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the bedroom ceiling while the previous evening replays itself. When he’s not in post orgasmic bliss all he can think about is how fumbling he was, how he could only last all of ten seconds. How he’d just laid there while Paul got himself off after.

He raises his free hand and presses it against his eyes. There’s a crinkling noise, and Daryl raises and twists his arm where he sees that the condom wrapper at some point got stuck to the skin of his bicep.

He lowers his arm slowly and swallows hard. Alex comes to his mind unbidden, the fact that Paul fucked him in this very bed before Daryl had ended up in Hilltop. Paul telling Daryl that he only wanted a distraction and Alex wanted more. How they’re still friends despite this. He wonders if Alex ever looked at Paul with Daryl and like everyone else at Hilltop thought the two of them were together. If so he isn’t jealous—he is still as friendly with Daryl as he is with anyone else.

Daryl thinks if their places were reversed he wouldn’t be so gracious. If he’d gotten kicked from Paul’s side and had to see someone else there that someone would have an arrow buried in his skull by now.

_Just because we’re the last two gay men on earth doesn’t mean Alex should settle for someone who doesn’t love him and never will. It’s shitty to lead people on._

It takes longer than he would have expected to panic. _Fuck._ What the hell has he done? What happens when Paul wakes up?

Going as slowly as his racing heart will let him he slides out from underneath Paul’s arm and rolls to the edge of the bed. Paul stirs again but still doesn’t wake. Daryl remembers how he was dead to the world during the snow storm. It turns out he’s able to reach that state of relaxation post coitus and Daryl is really fucking grateful.

Still he is as quiet as he can be when he gathers up his clothes. They’re scattered all over, his shirt by the door, one boot under the bed, jeans wedged between the bed and the nightstand. When he has everything he stops and stares at Paul stretched out on the bed, studies the elegant lines of his back that are marred by old scars and new bright red lines Daryl clawed on. That _thing_ in his chest clenches again. He forces himself to look away then tiptoes into his own room where he gets dressed as fast as he can.

That panicky feeling doesn’t leave, it intensifies. He knows that even if he’s lucky enough and Paul sleeps for ten hours or more he’s still going to wake up eventually. Daryl can see his shit-eating grin and hear his _Why good morning, Mr Dixon_ as if it’s something that’s already happened.

The decision to flee isn’t a conscious one at first. He moves to head out of the door, thinking maybe of going to the house or go to the woods to hunt when he remembers that today is the day Tara is making the Alexandria run. It’s early enough, she probably hasn’t left yet but will soon.

He gathers up his crossbow and few other possessions as quickly as he can. He forces himself to walk slowly and quietly out the door and down the steps. The steps in particular are old and creaky as hell; Paul may be out but Daryl isn’t taking any chances.

He’s able to keep from breaking into a run on his way to the gate but it’s a very near thing.

“I thought you weren’t coming on this run,” Tara says when she sees him.

“Changed my mind,” he replies. He walks past her to the driver’s side, suddenly aware that he still smells like sweat and sex.

If Tara notices she doesn’t comment, just makes him ride shotgun instead of driving.

Daryl watches Hilltop dwindle from sight in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t feel the relief he expected, if anything his thoughts become even more tangled. Part of him wants to tell Tara to stop and let him out but bigger part of him wants to tell Tara to speed up.

He tells himself this is for the best, that he’d stayed to long at Hilltop and he didn’t really belong there. Doesn’t belong anywhere, and was getting too comfortable. This really was the best thing for all involved.

*******************

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus’s version of “This Must be the Place (Naive Melody)” sounds more like this cover than the original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPqeZncpbuE


	15. Now

Instinct is the only thing that saves him. Daryl dives forward, dropping to the ground and rolling out of the way. He’s aware of something sailing over his head, coming so close his hair is ruffled. He scrambles across the floor, chasing after his dropped gun. He can sense his attacker closing in on him, shit the motherfucker is fast. His hand closes around the grip of his gun, he starts to bring it up—

“ _ Daryl?” _

He freezes, then slowly looks up, getting good look at the man standing over him for the first time.

“Paul,” he gasps.

It is Paul Rovia, in his ridiculous leather coat and a scarf covering his lower face. He stands frozen in position and holding a red-handled fire axe raised above his shoulders. 

“Are you going to use that thing on me?” Daryl asks, after a few moments of tense silence.

Paul reaches up and pulls the scarf down under his chin, revealing his face. He looks like he is not at all impressed with Daryl’s shit. “I’m thinking about it,” he says, even as he lowers the axe.

Daryl doesn’t care, the sheer relief at seeing him standing up and alive leaves zero room for any other emotion. He scrambles to his feet and takes a step forward, only to freeze when Paul starts lifting the ax again.

The two men stand there, eyes locked. The light is dim and Daryl can’t see him that well, but well enough to tell that he is fucking  _ furious _ , in a way Daryl doesn’t think he’s ever seen, even during the worst of the fighting in the war. Daryl feels like he’s been slapped.

“I’d reconsider your approach, Mr Dixon,” he says, “As putting this thing into your thick skull is still an option I’m considering.”

Daryl inhales sharply, lips clamping together. He tries to think of something to say and forces himself to maintain eye contact. He owes the other man that much. 

Paul’s glare melts slowly, and the axe droops. “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?” he asks.

Daryl blinks, “Looking for you, you damn idiot!”

“How’d you know I was missing?”

“Maggie came looking for you, she’s here, there’s a group of us.”

“ _ Maggie’s _ here?” he says, appalled. “She’s  _ pregnant _ , she should be resting within walking distance of a fucking doctor.”

“She’s  _ what _ ?” Daryl says, and forces himself to stay on the subject, “You didn’t turn up in Alexandria, so she sent the alarm out. We’re here to rescue you. We need to get moving-” 

“No, we have a few things to discuss first. I’m fucking pissed as hell at you, Mr Dixon. For the record it is shitty hookup etiquette to just take off in the morning without so much as a  _ note _ .” This is said flippantly but Daryl sees right through it. He’d already felt like the world’s biggest horse’s ass when he thought Paul was mad at him. And he wasn’t wrong, Paul is a red fucking rage.

But Daryl can also see that he’s  _ hurt _ even more.

“I’m sorry,” Daryl whispers.

“Yeah, whatever,” Paul snaps, looking away from Daryl’s face and breathing hard, nostrils flaring. “Why’d you leave?” He looks back and his eyes are like lasers boring into Daryl’s skull.

“I,” he says, trying to find words, “I can’t explain it.”

Paul looks at the body on the floor then back at Daryl, “Try.”

“Paul, we don’t have time for this—”

“And whose fucking fault is that? Maybe if somebody hadn’t been overwhelmed with gay panic and ran off--”

“It wasn’t that!” Daryl snaps, getting drawn in despite himself. Even though he’s relieved to see Paul he still wants to strangle him a little. 

“Then what  _ was _ it?”

Daryl opens his mouth intending to say that they can talk about it later, getting out now is what is important. What comes out instead is the truth, “I couldn’t deal with you waking up and telling me that it was nothing. Or just a…a distraction.” 

Paul stares at him. “What. The fuck. Does  _ that _ mean?”

“It’s why you broke up with Alex, said you wasn’t interested in anything more. Just something to take your mind off things,” Daryl answers. As soon as the words are out he realizes he has said the worst possible thing he could have. If anything Paul looks even angrier.

“So what, you thought I just what…fucked you because I was bored or desperate? That I’d do that to you? Is that the kind of person you think I am?”

“What was I supposed to think? Ever since we met it’s been such a  _ joke _ to you—”

“Fuck  _ you _ , you dumb redneck  _ asshole _ . I went chasing all over hell’s half acre and almost got killed because I’m in love with you and  _ I _ couldn’t deal with you just running without a goddamned _ word _ of explanation!” 

Daryl can hear the rattle of gunshots coming from outside. He knows they need to go but he’s too blindsided by what Paul’s just said. He tries to say something, anything, but words won’t come.

“Don’t hurt yourself, I don’t need you to say it back,” Paul snaps. 

“Paul—” before Daryl can make himself say anything the thunderous boom of yet another explosion rocks the building, making them both stagger.

“Fuck,” Daryl says, “We need to get out of here  _ now—“  _ his voice cuts off and cold fear washes over him when he sees that Paul is swaying on his feet. He steps closer and grabs the other man by the elbow, this close he can see what the dim light has concealed. Mostly how fucking pale Paul is, even his lips are colorless and his eyes are glassy. 

Paul blinks at him, looking down at Daryl’s fingers gripping his elbow. He opens his coat with his free hand and Daryl sees that his entire right side is soaked with blood. 

Paul takes in a harsh breath and says, “Fuck.”

Then his eyes roll back into his head and he faints. Daryl lunges forward to catch him and lowers him carefully to the floor. His hands are numb and shaking as he jerks Paul’s coat and shirt aside to see where he’s hurt. Daryl finds a small hole in his flank, blood pouring out and soaking into Paul’s coat. When Daryl sees it he makes a high pitched noise, like an injured animal. No, no, fuck  _ no, _ not after this, he can’t fucking lose him after all this.

_ You will if you don’t get it fucking together, _ a savage voice tells him. 

Daryl forces himself to swallow his panic, and rolls Paul on his other side, ripping his shirt open. There’s an exit wound, bigger and messier than the one on his front and the sight of it triggers panic again.

“ _ Fuck,”  _ he moans out and slams his fist against the floor, the pain grounding him. He strips off his vest and shirt.

“Even if I weren’t pissed at you I’m not in the mood,” Paul slurs out. Daryl jerks his head up; Paul’s come to, his eyes dazed and out of focus.

“Well I’m even more fucking pissed at  _ you,  _ you little bastard _!”  _ Daryl barks as he starts ripping his shirt into strips, “You needed to lay into me so bad you couldn’t be bothered to mention you’d been fucking  _ shot  _ first?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Paul says, voice sounding far away, “I didn’t realize he got me.” He gestures at the body on the floor, “Better shot than I thought.”

Daryl wads the biggest pieces of his shirt up and presses them against Paul’s side. “Hold this,” he says. Paul moves his hand sluggishly to his side and presses down on the makeshift bandaging while Daryl ties them into place. Blood is already soaking through the fabric. Daryl snags his vest up and puts it on over his bare chest.

“I’m still mad at you, but that’s a hot look,” Paul mumbles out.

“ _ Fuck _ you, Paul,” Daryl snarls. He leans over, grabs Paul’s arm and loops it over the back of his neck, then slowly lifts them both off the ground. Paul makes a noise that is too weak to be called a scream and stumbles. “Don’t you fucking dare pass out!” Daryl says, his voice raw with panic that is doing its best to escape his control. 

Paul doesn’t pass out, but he can barely support any of his own weight and leans heavily against Daryl. Whatever rush of adrenaline or shock that kept him on his feet fighting and oblivious to his own injuries has vanished. 

The walk down the stairwell is something out of a nightmare. It’s pitch black and full of the coppery smell of blood. They have to go down each step incredibly slow; Daryl is terrified that Paul will faint again and they’ll both go tumbling down the steps since there is no way in hell Daryl will let go of him. 

“I need to rest for a second,” Paul says when they reach the second level. 

“No you fucking don’t,” Daryl says, “You can do that later.” He’s afraid that if Paul sits down then Daryl won’t be able to get him back up again. From outside Daryl can hear the sounds of gunfire, it’s reached a fever pitch. He thinks Maggie’s team must have arrived by now; and he tries not to think about what Paul told him about her.

Paul doesn’t give him much choice about letting him rest in the end. He makes it to the main floor of the terminal at least when his legs give out. Daryl is able to drag him behind the shelter of the information desk. His eyes are closed and his breathing is fast and shallow.

“Paul? Talk to me,” Daryl says. 

“It’s…quiet. Is that bad or good?” Paul murmurs.

Daryl realizes when he’s finished that the gunfire has ceased. All he hears is the sound of their breathing. “Dunno,” Daryl says, heart racing. He grabs his gun and holds it at the ready, “I’m gonna see what’s going on; Rick said—“

“Fucking… _ Rick _ is here?” Paul interrupts. His eyes open and he tries to push himself up to his elbows, “Who the hell is running Alexandria? Michonne?”

“No, she’s here too,” Daryl answers as he pushes Paul back down, “Don’t try to move.”

“Wonderful,” Paul mutters.

“Stay here,” he tells Paul.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Paul answers. His voice is back to that far away tone that scares Daryl badly.

“You better not,” Daryl says. His voice is shaky. Leaving him is hard even if it’s only as far away as the terminal entryway. Daryl cautiously creeps across the main floor of the terminal to the doors. The windows have been shattered, he doesn’t remember if they had been when he first entered the building or been destroyed in the shootout. He hadn’t noticed after his mad dash to the terminal. He opens the door cautiously, just enough to take a look at what’s going on. 

Outside is a mess of billowing smoke and dead bodies. He sees a few walkers staggering through the smoke; one turns in his direction. Before it can get far Daryl sees Rick Grimes emerge from the smoke with a machete in hand and the walker’s head goes flying. Daryl waits until he’s despatched the others before opening the door and calling out his name.

“Did you find him?” Rick calls out as he jogs over to the Daryl. More walkers are emerging from the smoke.

“I found him!” Daryl answers, relief flooding him at the sight of Rick. He leads Rick back to the reception desk at a dead run. “He’s hurt, we need to get him the fuck out of here  _ now. _ ” Daryl leads him back to the information desk.

_ “Shit,”  _ Rick spits when he sees Paul, dropping to his knees to get a look at the extent of his injuries. 

Paul stirs and looks up at him. “What the hell are  _ you _ doing here? You have better things to do then traipse all over and risk getting caught looking for me.”

“Well I owe you,” Rick says, examining Paul’s wound, “And these people needed to be dealt with.”

“Were they?”

“Yes, Maggie’s group came and got the last of them.”

“Ogden?”

“Me and Michonne saw to him,” Rick looks up at Daryl, face grave, “Can you carry him by yourself? Just to the Rover, this place is crawling with walkers.”

Daryl nods and bends down, sliding one arm under Paul’s knees and the other under his shoulders. Paul hooks his own arm over Daryl’s neck, “One, two, three…” Daryl murmurs in his ear. He’s as gentle as he can be Paul still lets out a weak moan. Daryl is unable to stop a snarl of pain from coming out of his own mouth, Paul is heavier than he looks and it’s all Daryl can do hold him up. A fireman’s carry would be easier but Daryl is terrified of hurting him worse. He staggers after Rick, who trots ahead of them Colt in one hand and machete in the other, clearing their path of walkers. 

The ground outside is covered in dead walkers, bloody limbs, and the corpses of the rogue Saviors. Daryl almost trips over Ogden’s severed head, its eyes are open and its mouth tries to bite. 

“Rick!” a voice calls out. It’s Michonne, she’s taking out walkers with her katana. 

“Tell everyone to fall back to the cars! We need to get the fuck out of here!”

Daryl’s shoulders are crying out in agony and he stumbles a few times before the Rover comes into view. It has been driven right up the main road almost to the terminal. There are bullet holes marring the side doors and a few windows have been shattered. Maggie and her guard are surrounding it in a loose knot, taking down any walkers that get too close. 

Maggie sees them and when her eyes fall on Paul’s still form her face shatters completely. Daryl is hit with a memory so vivid it’s like time has doubled—carrying Beth’s body out of Grady, Maggie seeing her sister and collapsing to the ground screaming in grief. 

“He’s alive!” Rick shouts, “He’s hurt bad, we need to get going!” Maggie just stands there stunned for a few seconds before snapping into action, barking orders at her men. 

Marco and Dante run up to help take Paul from Daryl’s arms. They carry him to the Rover and lay him out on the floor of the cargo space. Dante remains at Paul’s head while Marco races around to the front passenger side. Daryl jumps in the back, crouching by Paul’s side. “Paul?” he asks, leaning over him. There’s no response; he lost consciousness again at some point during their trek to the Rover. 

He’s vaguely aware that outside the Rick is telling Maggie to just go, that they’ll catch up. She hauls herself up into the back of the Rover and kneels down across from Daryl on Paul’s other side. 

“Kal! Get us out of here!” He obeys instantly, swinging the Rover into a loop and trying to dodge the converging walkers. A few grab at the SUV, dead fingernails scratching at the windows. Kal jerks the steering wheel and Daryl nearly falls over. 

“Where’s Bryan?” Dante asks, realizing that the fourth member of Maggie’s honor guard is missing.

“He’s going back to Alexandria with Heath and Siddiq,” Maggie answers, staring at Paul’s still form. Blood has soaked through his makeshift bandages and is spreading into the carpet. Maggie is pale and shaking a little but she is holding herself together far better than Daryl is “Where are those blankets?” 

Marco finds them wedged under front seat and passes them back. Maggie folds one up and hands it to Daryl, “Keep pressure  it,” she says. Daryl nods and presses the blanket against Paul’s bloody side while Maggie and Dante spread the rest of the blankets on top injured man. When they finish Maggie slumps down and grips Paul’s shoulder. 

****************

Daryl isn’t sure how long the drive to the Hilltop takes in reality, time stops having any meaning to him. 

“Fuck,” Paul slurs without warning at one point, not even bothering to open his eyes. Daryl jerks in surprise.

“Jesus?” Maggie says softly, leaning over to hear him better. “We’re on our way to Hilltop.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” is his answer, “Should be resting.” 

“Shut up,” is all Maggie says. 

Paul cracks his eyes open long enough to give her a look, then closes them again. “Where’s Daryl?”

“Here,” he answers.

“You’re an asshole.”

“You told me that already.”

“It bears repeating.”

“I ain’t gonna argue with you,” Daryl swallows, “You said something else after that, I—“

Paul opens his eyes and tries to focus on him, “No,” he interrupts, then as forcefully as he can manage, “Not…gonna…talk ‘bout that now.”

“Alright,” Daryl says.

“Wanna be sure it’s not because you think I’m dying,” Paul closes his eyes again and his voice is so weak Daryl can barely hear his, “I meant it, though.”

“I’m real glad about that,” Daryl says; his voice cracking, “Hey, just hold on ok? We’ll be there soon.”

************************

Paul doesn’t wake again before they get to Hilltop. He’s deathly pale and breathing so shallowly that Daryl would think he’s dead if he couldn’t feel his pulse beneath his hands. He comes close to sobbing with relief when the Hilltop comes into view. Kal drives right through the gates and doesn’t stop until he’s in front of the medical trailer. 

Maggie jumps out of the back of Rover almost before it’s come to a complete stop, yelling, “Someone get Dr Carson and Alex! Right now!” Daryl sees that a crowd of Hilltop folk are descending upon the Rover, eyes wide with fear. When they see Daryl and Dante carry Paul out using one of the blankets as a sling cries of “Is that Jesus?” “Is he dead?” “What happened?” fill the air.

“Fucking do what she says!” Daryl yells at no one in particular. He can feel his self control stretched to the limit and about to explode. Thankfully someone runs for Barrington house shouting for Doctor Carson. 

As Daryl and Dante make their way inside the medical trailer Daryl flashes back to the day he met Paul. Carrying him to Denise and telling her to take a look at him, but he wasn’t staying. 

The medical trailer is divided into a small waiting room in front and three exam rooms farther back. Daryl and Dante take Paul into the first one and lift him up onto the exam table. Daryl leans over him, “Paul? We’re here.” There’s no response, all Daryl can do is grab his icy hands and beg whatever deity might be listening not to let him die now. 

It feels like hours before Doctor Carson and Alex arrive, although it can’t have been more than a few minutes. Alex is out of breath and when he sees Paul his eyes widen and a several emotions flash across his face one after another—love, grief, fear, and last of all determination. He rushes inside, grabs a pair of latex gloves, and starts cutting away the makeshift bandages wrapping around Paul’s side. 

Dr Carson arrives then, pushing past Daryl without a second look. The two of them start babbling to each other in medical speak that Daryl understands about as well as he would if they were speaking Chinese. 

Alex pauses to look up at Daryl, “You need to go outside.”

“I ain’t…I can’t leave him…”

“ _ Daryl.  _ There’s nothing you can do but get in the way. You have to let us help him now,” Alex says. He’s not being cruel but he’s not wasting time softening his words. He’s also not wasting time waiting for Daryl to comply, he turns his attention back to Paul and it’s as though Daryl has vanished.

Daryl stands there for a few more seconds before he is finally able to make his feet move. 

********************

When Daryl steps out into the waiting area he sees that the door to the trailer is wide open. He looks outside and sees Maggie standing in the center of a growing crowd of Hilltop folk, explaining what happened today. 

“It was the rogue Saviors, there were about thirty of them. They were planning on taking the Sanctuary and getting Negan free. They’re all dead now, so are a few people from the Sanctuary that were helping them.

“Everyone that left with me is fine. We found Jesus and brought him back here. He’s hurt but Dr Carson is going to take care of him.

“There’s not much more to do,” she finishes, “Everyone get back to work, I’ll let y’all know about Jesus as soon as I do. Rick Grimes and some other folks from Alexandria are coming, they were right behind us. We need to find places for them; if anyone has space in their room or trailer to put them up for the night then let me or Glenn know.”

The crowd starts to disperse, a few remaining. When Daryl steps down and goes to Maggie’s side and the remaining people notice him for the first time a flurry of whispering goes through them.

Daryl swallows down a volatile mixture of shame and guilt and rage this provokes. “Carson and Alex are taking care of him.”

“Ok,” she says. She’s pale and a little green.

“Do you need to sit down?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “I’m going to wait for Glenn, he’s on his way.”

She doesn’t have long to wait, Glenn is being guided out of Barrington house by Tara. He’s followed by a little knot of people, folks who must have missed Maggie’s announcement. 

It takes Daryl a second to register who it is at Glenn’s other side, and when he does he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“ _ Carol?”  _ he says. She breaks into a jog when she sees him.

“What…what’re you doing here?” he rasps when she reaches him. 

“Rick sent a runner to the Kingdom,” she says. Daryl remembers as soon as she says it, “When I heard what happened I came straight here. I got here a few hours ago, been talking with Glenn.”

Glenn himself has reached them. “Maggie?” he says, stretching an arm out. His wife goes gratefully to him and he starts questioning her in a low voice. 

Daryl turns his attention back to Carol and starts to hug her before remembering that he’s still covered in Paul’s blood, it’s all over his chest and arms up to his elbows. His lungs freeze up and he can’t seem to get enough air. Carol grabs his arm, “Hey. Just breathe.” He nods and tries to obey. “Is there a place nearby where you can get cleaned up?” she asks softly. 

“I…” he looks back at the open door to the medical trailer, “I can’t leave…”

“Hey,” Glenn says, “Maggie and I are here. We’ll send Tara if anything changes.”

He still hesitates. Looks around and see the gathered group of Hilltop folks staring at him.

Carol gives his arm a gentle tug, “It won’t take long. Come on.” He gives a jerky nod, and lets her guide him away.

********

He leads her back to the trailer without thinking. When they step inside Daryl’s heart constricts in his chest and he can’t move for a minute. He remembers standing here… _ god, was it only four days ago? _ trying to find the courage to go into Paul’s room. 

“Daryl?” Carol asks softly.

“Bathroom’s this way,” he says, “I’ll only be a minute.”

Carol hovers outside the door while Daryl strips. He studies the pile of clothes on the floor and wants to burn all of them, even his beloved vest. Looking at the splatters of blood on it makes him feel like he’s going to throw up. 

When he gets into the shower he glances at the water heater but doesn’t turn it on. He’s not going to waste what propane Paul has left. The water is so cold it’s painful and that suits him just fine. 

He uses a washcloth to scrub the blood off of him. He can’t feel clean enough, he scrubs until his skin is red and raw. The water swirling down the drain at his feet has turned a dull pink.

He stands there staring at it and shivering for a long time; it’s hypnotic. He’s brought back to himself by a sharp knock on the door. 

“Daryl? Are you ok in there?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning the water off. He’s halfway through drying himself off with a towel before remembering that he has no spare clothes here; they’re all in his backpack by his bed in the attic of the Grimes house still. He opens the door with a towel around his waist and sees Carol has already thought of that; she’s holding a bundle of clothes out to him.

“These are the only things of his that look like they’d fit you,” she says. She’s found one of Paul’s oversized t-shirts and a familiar pair of grey sweatpants. His hands are trembling a little when he takes them from her. He’s only able to make himself put the sweats on by reminding himself that his other option is his bloody jeans.

When he steps out of the bathroom again Carol takes one look at his face and says, “Hey. Come here.” He lets her put her arms around him and hold him close while he goes thoroughly and completely to pieces. 

*************

“Why are you really here?” he asks when he’s gotten enough of himself together to talk. They’ve ended up sat on the floor; his head is against her shoulder and she’s combing his hair out with her fingers.

Her hand goes still, “I thought you might need me if something had happened to him.”

He considers that in confusion, “How…how did you know?”

“I read every letter you sent me, it was pretty obvious how you felt about him. And he talks about you, you know. Asks me for advice.”

Daryl wonders how the fuck he could be obvious when he just figured out himself not long ago, and in his latest letters he has deliberately avoided mentioning Paul at all. He doesn’t ask her, though. Just says, “What sort of advice did you give him?”

“All kinds. I also tell him that if he hurts you he’s getting fed to Shiva a piece at a time.”

Daryl lets out a surprised snort of laughter. They’re quiet for a bit, then she says in a low voice, “That’s not the only reason,” she takes a deep breath, “Ezekiel asked me to marry him.”

Daryl lifts his head off her shoulder and studies her face. She looks terrified. “What did you say?” he asks her.

“That I needed to think about it. Then the runner showed up, said something had happened to Jesus and I came here. I said I’d give him my answer when I got back.”

Daryl waits, and she says, “I don’t know what I’m going to say. What’s being married mean these days anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Daryl says, “A lot more than it ever did before. Promising to stick around.”

Carol’s eyes are wet, “I don’t know if I can do that. I still want to run, you know.”

Daryl swallows and looks down at his hands, “That’s what I did earlier this week. Running don’t make any of it go away.”

She takes one of his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “Let’s go back and see how he’s doing.”

**************

When they get back to the medical trailer there is still a crowd of Hilltop folk outside it standing vigil. A few give Daryl looks that he can’t read even if he wanted to.

Glenn, Tara, and Maggie are in the trailer’s waiting room. There’s only one  empty seat so Daryl gives it to Carol and sits down on the floor with his back against the wall and his head bowed.

None of them say much. Maggie asks Carol how things are at the Kingdom and the two women talk for a bit about planned projects the communities are undertaking this year. 

“Rick and Michonne should be here before too long,” Maggie says, “It would be nice for all of us to sit down and coordinate some things.”

“That would be good.”

Maggie looks at Tara cautiously, “I was thinking it might be good for the leaders of the communities to meet up from time to time. All the communities.”

Tara looks away, her throat working. Daryl studies her profile and remembers how he told Dwight they would be square if they got Paul back. He feels like a traitor and wants to apologize to her, even though she can’t know he said that. 

After a few moments Tara lifts a knuckle to her eye to wipe a tear away, “That’s a good idea,” her voice shakes only a little, “We all have to be sure we can trust each other to stand together when stuff like this happens.”

Maggie puts a hand on her shoulder and Tara covers it with one of her own, squeezing the fingers tight. Looking at her Daryl knows that she hasn’t exactly forgiven Dwight and she definitely hasn’t forgotten. He remembers when she first visited him months ago she told him she was trying to tell herself that Denise wouldn’t want her to be angry, she’d want her to do what would help the most people. Tara had said that thinking this didn’t help. Daryl wonders if that’s changed, or started to. 

Time has slowed down to a crawl. He’s not sure how long they sit there in silence before there is a cautious knock on the open door. They look up and see Kal standing in the doorway.

“Rick’s group is here. Do you want to meet them here, or…”

“Send them to the house,” Glenn says, “I’ll talk with them there. Not enough room in here.”

Tara goes with him. Carol puts a hand on Daryl’s shoulder and asks if he will be ok for a few minutes. He nods.

It’s just him and Maggie. Daryl doesn’t bother to move to one of the newly vacated chairs, he’s fine on the floor. The minutes tick by and they don’t say anything to each other. Maggie looks pale and tired. Daryl knows he should keep his mouth shut but he can’t help but ask, “How…how are you feeling? Do you need to rest?”

“He told you, didn’t he?” Maggie says, her voice a dull whisper, “About the baby.”

Daryl nods, “He didn’t mean to, I don’t think. It slipped out today when I found him.”

Maggie shrugs and murmurs, “I don’t know for sure if I am pregnant or not. I haven’t seen Dr Carson about it yet. Jesus was going to go with me…” she trails off, “Yesterday? So I could find out.”

Daryl looks at her in surprise, “Why not Glenn?”

Maggie looks away, struggling to control herself. When she answers Daryl has to strain to make her words out. “I’m afraid to tell him. I don’t want him to know yet.”

Before Daryl can ask why there is movement at the doorway of the trailer. Glenn is standing just outside, foot on the steps leading up to the door. 

Maggie goes pale when she notices him. Daryl doesn’t know what if anything Glenn heard, he doesn’t know how long he was standing there and her voice had been so quiet that Daryl could barely hear her.  

Then Glenn steps inside and Daryl sees his face. He  _ has  _ gotten better at controlling his facial expressions, but not good enough. 

“What,” Maggie says, and swallows, “I thought you were going to the house.”

“I wanted to ask you something first. So I sent Tara and Carol ahead,” he says, voice low and careful. 

Maggie stands there frozen, breathing coming out hard and fast. Before she can find her voice Glenn says softly, “Babe. Why would you be scared to tell me?” He sounds heartbroken. 

Maggie’s face crumples, “Last time…last time…” she can’t talk for several moments, “Everyone ended up in the woods because they were trying to get me here. I’m the one who made the deal with Gregory, talked him into letting us take care of the Saviors.”

“You  _ can’t  _ think that was your fault,” Glenn says, “We all made that decision. And Negan would have come for us anyway.”

“I know, I know it in my head. But it  _ happened,  _ and I keep thinking it’s connected. I know it isn’t; but it happened. It happened, and then Abe died, then the baby died anyway, then everything else… It makes no sense, I know it doesn’t, but I keep thinking that if I lose  _ this  _ one something even worse will happen.”

Glenn steps forward and gropes for her. When he finds her he pulls her into his arms and holds her tightly against his chest. She’s crying and he strokes her hair, murmuring soothingly.  

“If something happens it’s not on you. And no matter what I’m here, ok? You won’t have to go through it alone. Not ever. I’m sticking around.”

**************

Daryl has to step outside to give them some privacy, he already feels like he’s heard some things he has no right to. 

After some time Glenn emerges from the trailer. He cocks his head in Daryl’s direction. 

“Hey,” he says, “How are you holding up?”

“I’d kill everyone here for a cigarette right now,” Daryl answers. He shuffles his feet, “How are  _ you _ holding up?”

“I don’t fucking know. I’m going to need a bit to adjust,” even as he says this Daryl can see that there is a smile fighting to come out.

Daryl hesitates, then says, “I know it’s early, but…congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Glenn says. He reaches out and feels around until he finds Daryl’s shoulder, then says, “Jesus is going to be ok, you know that right?”

Daryl says the same thing he told Rick earlier today, “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Glenn says, “He made it this far. And Maggie said he was excited about being an honorary uncle. He’s going to stick around.”

****************

When Doctor Carson comes out and says Paul will be ok Daryl can’t bring himself to believe him.

“Do you have everything? Is there anything you need—” Daryl asks. He’s willing to open up a vein here and now if Carson tells him to, or drive all the way back to fucking Grady and shoot the entire place up for supplies. 

Doctor Carson blinks at him, and says, “It was a clean shot, in and out. He lost a lot of blood, he’s a bit dehydrated and he’ll need antibiotics so he doesn’t get an infection. We have everything he needs, but right now what he needs most is to rest.”

“Can we see him?” Maggie asks. Daryl doesn’t care what the answer is, the only way to keep him away will be to shoot him. 

Carson reads the lay of the land in Daryl’s face, and says, “Just a few of you at a time, ok?”

*******************

Paul is awake but not particularly alert when Daryl and Maggie come in. He can only keep his eyes open for a few seconds at a time and his voice is distant and drugged. Daryl hangs back as Maggie goes to Paul and takes his hand.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she says, “Don’t do it again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She talks to him for a bit more, then bends over to kiss his forehead. She gives Daryl a quick look then steps back so he can come closer.

“Hey,” Daryl says. His tongue feels thick and heavy.

“Hey,” Paul answers. His eyes open a little then close again.

“Still mad at me?” Daryl asks.

“I think so, but I’ve been given too much morphine to know for sure,” his words are soften by a slight smile.

“That’s fine,” Daryl says, “I’m just glad to see you.”

Paul lets out a pleased little hum, “So am I…don’t think it’s the morphine, but…” he trails off. Daryl doesn’t try to get him to say anything more, just stands there watching him until Dr Carson shoos them out of the room.

******************

Maggie leaves with Glenn to get some rest. Daryl stays in the waiting room in one of the uncomfortable chairs. Carol, Rick, and Michonne come to sit with him a few times and try to persuade him to go get some sleep himself. Daryl just shakes his head. He stays where he’s at, hour after hour. 

The sun has set and Alex comes out, looking tired and drained. Daryl isn’t quite sure what to say to him. 

“How are you holding up, Daryl?” Alex asks, eyes kind. 

“I’m here,” he mumbles.

“That’s all you can be, sometimes. I’m sorry if I came across as short to you earlier,” Alex says, genuinely remorseful, “But we needed to be quick.”

Daryl stares at him. “I don’t care if you punched me in the dick so long as you did it to help him.”

“Colorful way of putting it,” Alex says, although he looks relieved that Daryl isn’t angry. “He woke up again for a bit, asked for you. We’re going to move him into Barrington house in a few hours if he’s still doing well; it’s a better place to recover. He’ll be more comfortable there. Do you want to help?”

Daryl nods, then whispers, “You’re a good guy.”  _ Better than me, _ he thinks.

Alex studies him for a bit, looking for all the world like he picked that thought out of Daryl’s mind, “You and me never got a chance to sit down and really talk. We should.”

Good guy or not Daryl thinks he’d rather walk barefoot across a pit of broken glass. “Ok,” he says. Alex seems to have picked up on that thought as well.

“Paul’s a good friend,” Alex says, “I think you and me should clear the air.”

“A friend,” Daryl says doubtfully.

Alex sighs, “Yeah, a friend. You don’t get that, do you? I’ve seen you look at me a few times like you’ve wanted to kick my ass. You don’t need to. I care about him but not like that. Not any more.”

Daryl stares at him, overcome with embarrassment. He had no  _ idea _ Alex noticed that,  _ Daryl  _ hardly acknowledged the feelings of rage the other man occasionally provoked in him.

Alex isn’t finished, “You’re an all or nothing guy, aren’t you? My boyfriend Jeremy, he was like that,” Alex’s voice gets tight, “And I think Paul is like that too. You love someone and it’s forever. Not everyone’s like that. I’m not saying it was  _ easy,  _ getting over him. But I did,” Alex smiles a little, “Besides I’m with Wes now.”

Daryl blinks, “Wes? The cook? I thought…wasn’t he married?” Although Daryl thinks that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, it had taken him four decades to realize he was gay himself.

Alex lifts his eyebrows, “Door swings both ways,” then when he sees Daryl’s confused look, “He’s bisexual.”

“Oh,” Daryl says. 

“Anyway,” Alex says, “You can come back and sit with him for a bit, if you’d like.”

Daryl nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

******************

They have an actual stretcher to move Paul into Barrington house. He comes to a bit and stares blearily up at them.

“Hey Paul,” Alex says, “How are you feeling?”

“Could use…some morphine.”

“You’ll have to wait a bit.”

“You  _ are  _ sadist, Daryl was right,” he slurs before nodding off again. 

****************

Once they have Paul settled into the library slash infirmary of Barrington house Dr Carson gives him a once over, tells Alex and Daryl he’s going to get some rest and to come get him if Paul gets worse.

Alex leaves the two of them alone not long after that. Daryl sits in the ugly kitchen chair by Paul’s bed, lost in an odd feeling that isn’t quite deja vu but close. The room is quiet, eerily so. He doesn’t know what time it is, just that it’s late. 

He watches the rise and fall of Paul’s chest for a few moments then takes his hand. “I know you’re pissed at me,” he tells the sleeping man, “But I just wanted you to know,” Daryl stops and struggles to find the words to explain himself, “My first couple of months here. Everyone I cared about was scattered. I didn’t know where it was that I belonged. If it was here, or Alexandria, or the Kingdom,” he stops again. His eyes are hot, his chest hurts, and he barely recognizes his own voice when he says, “But now I know it’s wherever you are.”

He stares at their hands and can’t believe his eyes at first when Paul’s fingers curl around his own. He jerks his head up and sees that Paul’s eyes are open partway and he’s looking at Daryl. He seems a bit more alert then he had the previous times he woke up.

“Paul?” Daryl whispers, “Hey. How are you feeling? Do you need me to get Alex or Dr Carson?”

Paul shakes his head a little, “No. I just need a drink of water, if you can arrange that for me.”

Daryl nods; Alex left a pitcher of water and a glass by the bed for that very purpose. Daryl fills the glass and helps Paul sit up and take a drink. When he’s finished he settles back down and sighs before staring up at Daryl’s face, expression unreadable. 

Daryl has a hard time meeting Paul’s eyes.

Paul lets out a snort and closes his eyes, lips curling into a smile with little humor.

“What?” Daryl asks.

“Just thinking what a pair we make,” Paul answers, “I finally accepted it that you were straight after all or just not into sex period. That it was ok, the rest of it was enough. Then I find out different, and you ran off because you thought that was  _ all  _ I was into.”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl says.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll keep saying it,” Daryl says, “It’s not…it’s not you. I just couldn’t…you could do a lot better than me.”

Paul makes a frustrated noise and opens his eyes, “I disagree. And even if I could that’s not something you get to decide for me,” he looks up at the ceiling, breathing hard. “I thought…after what happened with Glenn, I thought we trusted each other.”

“I trust you,” Daryl says, “I wasn’t…I wasn’t trying to make decisions for you, or…anything.” He swallows hard, “I just…I just panicked. When I woke up and saw you that morning, I ain’t never felt that way before. I couldn’t stand it,” The next words are hard to say; Daryl can’t remember the last time he has. He takes a deep breath and “I love you too,” comes out in a rush. He wants to say more but he doesn’t know how. That he loves when Paul reads to him, loves how Paul will slip weird shit into his pockets just to make him laugh, loves all his annoying little fuckeries, loves hearing him sing in the shower, loves his confidence in who he is, loves that all the tragedy and hardship of Paul’s life had just made him kind. “So fucking much,” is all he can manage. His voice breaks on the last word. 

“Oh,” Paul says quietly. Daryl looks up at him and can’t quite meet his eyes. He sees the muscles of Paul’s throat work, “Ok. Honesty Hour, right now. What do you want from me? Because I want to be with you. Like how we have been, preferably with the addition of lots of sex. This is not a joke, or a game,” his voice falters, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before either, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want that too,” Daryl replies quickly. 

“Ok,” Paul says, “Good. That’s good.” He smiles a little, and the expression on his face—sweet and hopeful—is too much. The tears Daryl’s been holding back through sheer force of will ever since he realized how badly Paul was hurt finally escape him. 

“Hey,” Paul whispers, raising his hand to stroke Daryl’s hair. Daryl grabs it with both of his own hands and presses his face against it, breathing in long shuddery gasps. He kisses Paul’s palm again and again, then lunges forward so he can kiss Paul on the face. There’s nothing sensual to it; even if Paul wasn’t hurt Daryl is close to collapse from exhaustion. But he needs to affirm that Paul’s alive and does it by kissing his lips and cheeks and jaw and eyelids. He can taste the salt of his own tears. 

Finally he’s able to stop, but stays leaning over Paul, face buried in his neck and breathing hard. Paul’s hand is cupped against the back of his head and he’s murmuring soothing nonsense. They stay that way for several minutes before Daryl lifts himself up.

“You should get some rest,” Daryl says. His voice is unsteady.

“So should you,” Paul answers. He’s right, Daryl can’t remember a time in his life when he ever felt this tired. 

“I will,” he says, “I’m just going to stay for a bit, until you fall asleep.”

“Oh. Can you fit in here with me?” Paul asks.

Daryl thinks he might start crying again, “Nah. I don’t want to hurt you, don’t worry about me.”

“The bed is big enough,” Paul insists, “just get on my other side. I’d…I’d like it if you did.”

“Ok,” Daryl says. Paul shifts to the side a little and Daryl curls up next to him on the opposite side of his bullet wound. It’s a tight fit; Daryl has to lay on his side with one arm folded under his head and his face tucked against Paul’s shoulder. He drapes his other arm out over Paul’s chest, palm against his heart.

“Of course I’m still annoyed with you. We could be naked and fucking right now,” Paul says.

Daryl can hear the playfulness in his tone and his lips curve into a smile. “This is still good,” he says. Then, just because he can, he presses a few kisses against Paul’s shoulder. “Get some rest,” he whispers when he’s finished. This last bit is unnecessary, Paul’s eyes have slipped all the way closed and his breathing is evening out. 

Despite his exhaustion Daryl stays awake listening to him breathe for a long time, overcome with a gratitude too great for words. He’s survived long enough in this new world to know that second chances are no less than miraculous. Part of him is afraid to fall asleep, convinced when he wakes up this will all have been a dream and he is still at the Sanctuary trying to get some sleep before resuming the search. 

He doesn’t have much choice, the weight of the past days is too much. Eventually he is dragged down into a sleep that is deep and dreamless. His final fragmented thought is that this time he’ll be there when Paul wakes up, he’s sticking around. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can’t believe this monster is finished. To think when I first outlined it I was planning on five chapters and the “now” bits were just going to be quick bits at the beginning. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading, especially to those who left comments and kudos. I appreciate them so much and they provided motivation to see this through. 
> 
> For those wondering, Maggie’s second pregnancy goes as smoothly as this sort of thing can and baby Hershel shows up just fine. 
> 
> Also, Carol says “yes” to Ezekiel. Some trivia: I started writing this before Ezekiel’s casting was announced, so I’ve been picturing him as looking a little like Andre Braugher in this ‘verse.
> 
> I set up a tumblr (mugsywrites) if anyone wants to come say hi/ask about any more headcanons I have for this fic. I’m hoping to do a few more one shots in this universe but I don’t know when I’ll get to that.


End file.
